


A Little Drop of Poison

by TheSilverSiren



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Demon Learns How to be Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blending In, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Marriage, Orpheus and Eurydice only towards the ending, Poison, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverSiren/pseuds/TheSilverSiren
Summary: When Crowley and Aziraphale escaped their superiors, free to at last be on their own side, there was one thing they hadn't considered: what if they got discorporated?Crowley learns this after being hit by a car. His body is destroyed, and his demonic soul is forced back to Hell. Once again, he is in the hands of those who would happily see him destroyed. But this time, they decide to let it linger, torture him until he begs for extinction. Crowley's only hope for salvation is to accept the deal proposed by his jailor: Oleander, the Poison Demon. That deal? She will help him escape Hell, but only if he agrees to take her with him, and teach her how to live among humans.The deal goes off without a hitch...until Hell has an epiphany, and Heaven senses another constant, demonic presence on Earth.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Female Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	1. Nightshade

**Author's Note:**

> The idea hit me like a bolt of lightning. I hope that it is to your liking. Also, for those who don't know, the song in this chapter is 'Go To Sleep Little Baby', found in the film 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?'

The evening had started out so pleasantly; Crowley never would have imagined that it would end with him back in Hell.

As he leaned against the wooden pole, slick with blood and sweat, Crowley struggled to stay awake. His vision was bleary, and entire sections of his back screamed silently. It made no sense, at least to his bleary mind. His physical body was no more. It had died all around him; he'd felt it. This was his soul, his essence. And yet, it felt pain. Just as much as his vessel had, if not more. The demon could already feel the lashes closing, skin knitting together out of nothing. And that was when the whip came down again. He screamed. His fellow demons laughed and cheered. Hastur's cackle was especially wild. "What's the matter, snake?!" He jeered. "Feeling a little uncomfortable?!" Another lashing. Another scream. From their throne, Beelzebub applauded without smiling. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself away from this awful place. Away from the mocking voices, the darkness, the pain. Back to his angel, and their last moments together. Bittersweet.

***

To celebrate their six months of victory, the two of them had gone out for Italian. Having both spent extended periods of time in Italy, during different parts of its history, the angel and the demon were especially skilled in separating the legit from the imitator. This restaurant had very much landed in the former, with rosemary-scented focaccia straight from a brick oven and rich, creamy sauces that left the mouth watering. Aziraphale savored every bite, sometimes closing his eyes while he did so, and Crowley smiled as he watched him. He'd been the one to tempt the angel into trying food, centuries ago. "If you're going to blend in," he'd argued, "then you're going to have to eat every once in a while. The humans will notice if you don't. And where's the harm in enjoying it?" To see Aziraphale take his words to heart, to truly lose himself in the endless possibilities of flavor, made Crowley proud. Thousands of years later, he'd been able to tempt him in many other things; the sort that generally took place in a bedroom, with the lights dimmed and the door locked.

Maybe, just maybe, he would tempt him into doing one last thing. Something that went far beyond eating food and drinking alcohol. Something that even surpassed physical pleasure.

Aziraphale opened his eyes, which instantly locked with Crowley's. With anyone else, he'd have gone stiff, mortified at having been caught enjoying himself so much. But with Crowley, the angel could drop all formalities and truly be himself. "My dear boy, are you alright?" Automatically, his soft hand had reached out and rested on Crowley's thin one. "You look rather contemplative."  
Chuckling, Crowley had threaded their hands together. His free hand had dropped the fork and snaked down his jacket, going for the pocket. When his fingers had curled around his prize, he'd allowed himself to relax. "Nah, I'm fine, angel. Just...enjoying the moment. Dinner, everything." He had leaned forward confidentially. "Though I would enjoy going home and having you all to myself."

His angel's pale, cherubic face adopted the color of a pomegranate. Licking his lips lightly, he nodded. "Yes, yes. I concur. But first, the check." He called for the waiter, and took care of the bill. Crowley didn't protest. With the moment drawing near, he felt his stomach churning in a wonderfully confusing mess. He'd never felt like this before, not quite: nervous but thrilled, terrified but certain. When they climbed into his beloved Bentley, he drove at over ninety miles per hour simply to channel his restlessness. And bring them closer to the moment. 

But first, a little...dessert.

***

Crowley fell to his knees, sending hot bolts of agony rushing up his thighs. Light-headed with pain, deafened by cruel laughter, he stared down at the dirty floor. It was soaked in his blood, some of it already congealing. The sight made him go cold all over. How long had this been going on? An hour? A day? It felt like forever. But time moved slower down here. Unfortunately for him.  
Faintly, he was aware of his hands being freed from their bonds. He was forced to stand by rough, strong hands. "Get up, traitor." A voice spat in his ear. "Or I'll break your legs, just for fun." He felt himself being made to face Beelzebub's throne. He didn't dare look up, lest the Lord of Flies send their swarm down to eat the flesh off his face. 

"Crowley, Szzznake of Eden," the Prince of Hell declared, "you ezzzzcaped us once. You shan't again. Your szzzentenzze?" Pause for effect. "An eternity of torture. You lot!" They cried to the horde of hideous visages. "You'll all get a turn! Firzzzzt to turn in their paperwork getzz to tear hizz nails out!"

The demons broke into frenzied fits of excitement, hollering their approval. Crowley, drained and drowned in pain, could only listen. A part of him wished this was all a dream. A horrible nightmare that he was currently having in his Bentley, somewhere outside of London. He closed his eyes, and escaped the present into the past.

***

The two supernatural beings had not been in a physical relationship for very long - six months was less than the blink of an eye for immortals - but they had gotten rather good at it. Expertly, Crowley reduced Aziraphale's clothes to ribbons while the angel got to work kissing all the spots that made Crowley shiver. Before long, they'd tumbled in bed; and after seemingly hours, they had lain back, spent and wholly satisfied.

Still glowing from pleasure and love, Crowley eyed his discarded jacket. More precisely, the secret it contained. Deciding that he couldn't wait any longer, not for a shower or cuddles, he slithered out of Aziraphale's loving arms and gone for the coat. The angel simply hummed, still buzzing from their activities. Crowley crouched over the jacket and extracted his treasure. Small enough to fit in his hand, and made from fine velvet. Holding it, his heart skipped a beat. In fact, it almost stumbled against his ribs. 

For the briefest moment, Crowley had felt like he was about to fall. Drop away from the solid ground of certainty and enter an empty void of ambiguity. It had been nothing short of thrilling. Pure adrenaline, injected into his veins.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley hid the little box behind his back as he approached the messy bed. On it, Aziraphale was starting to recover, beginning to sit up and smiling to himself. With a tight throat almost keeping the words in, Crowley spoke. "Angel." He said it softly, almost a sigh.

The angel immediately turned his head, blinking up at him. His eyes were so filled with love, with adoration, that it made Crowley ache deep inside. He didn't deserve it, such pure and unblemished sentiment. And yet, he would have sacrificed anything to keep it. Even his dignity, as he was about to do. Drumming his fingers against the box, he said, "Angel...you know I love you, right?"

"Oh, darling." Aziraphale smiled, putting a hand on his soft chest. "Of course I do! And I love you, too; more than anything."

"Good." Crowley answered, smiling toothily. "Because we've been through a lot together. Thick and thin, highs and lows. We saw humanity develop, we took part in more than a couple of big events...for someone's sake, we stopped the world from ending. And now, this!" He'd laughed, gesturing to himself as well as the angel, who at this point had been watching him with undivided attention. "Something seemingly impossible, yet here we are!"

"Indeed." Aziraphale smiled, his eyes betraying his curiosity. "Seemingly impossible, but undeniably beautiful."

"Right." Crowley gulped. "And that's why, well..." He got down on one knee.

***

Crowley barely made a sound as he was tossed into the cell. He was vaguely aware of the cold, hard stone suddenly beneath him; it had reached up to kiss his face, which was now burning worse than his back was. The door swung shut, echoing throughout Hell's gloomy halls. Lying there, bloodied and in pain, with hardly an ounce of strength left in him, Crowley didn't even have it in him to weep. He wanted to. He'd wept a few times in his immortal life, always alone, and it had always made him feel a bit better. Not as good as sleeping, but not a bad option. Now, however, the tears would not come. His form had betrayed him again: first by detaching itself from his vessel, then by getting swept up by Hell, the very place he'd thought he'd escaped for good.  
But now, he belonged to Hell just as before.  
Or, perhaps, moreso than before. Because at least then, he could leave. Now, he had no such luxury. Not without a body. Not without enough strength to break free, to possess a human. 

Hell would make sure he stayed that way. Beaten and bloodied within an inch of his existence, too emptied to even entertain the notion of escape, of possession.

For nearly all his time after the Fall, Crowley had wanted to be free of Hell. Now, he realized just how close to freedom he'd been. And how much farther away he was from it now.

***

Aziraphale's face became a trio of perfectly round O's, his cheeks reddening all over again. "What's happening?" He whispered, almost to himself.

Crowley smiled bashfully before finally revealing his treasure. Opened it to reveal a thick band of white gold, with a clear diamond planted in the center. "Aziraphale...angel..." He licked his lips with a forked tongue. "...Will you marry me?"

The angel looked at the ring, then at Crowley, then back again. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. Crowley waited, his sanity hanging by a thread. He would have waited all night if he had to, just to see his angel take that ring and slip it on his lovely, plump finger.

Aziraphale looked like he was about to do it. His hand gravitated towards the ring, fingers extended...then stopped. "But...wouldn't that be...?" The angel halted, unsure of himself. His hand dropped to his lap, as did his gaze. His brow furrowed like an old newspaper. Thoughts clouded his visage as he met Crowley's desperate yellow eyes with his nervous, sky-blue ones. "Crowley, my dear," he reached out and took Crowley's hand with both his own, "I love you more than anything, you know that. But what if this isn't such a good idea?"

"Why on Earth wouldn't it be?" Crowley demanded in a rough voice, ready to break. "You love me. I love you. We're free. So, why not?"

"Because, yes, we're free...for now," Aziraphale radiated concern, "but how do we know we aren't being watched, discreetly, by our former sides? How do we know that they won't find out about us and use it against us?" He sighed, sounding close to tears. "My love...I want to say yes above all else. I want to take that ring and put it on and kiss you hard. I want to be your husband, and I want you to be mine; I've always liked the concept of marriage, and that you would want to do that with me means more to me than words can ever describe. But doing so would expose us even more, and, and I..." He shook his head, tears falling down his face like a broken string of pearls. "I'm sorry, Crowley, but I can't."

***

An irregular humming noise awakened Crowley. Snapped him out of his feverish, agonized state. If only for a few minutes. He recognized the tune, and he never would have expected to hear it down here, in Hell. Then again, he hadn't expected anything of what had happened in the last several hours. The demon listened to the song, in spite of himself. 

_"Go to sleep you little baby,  
Go to sleep you little baby,  
Your momma's gone away and your daddy's gonna stay,  
Didn't leave nobody but the baby."_

The voice was sweet, but it had an acidic edge to it, like a milk on the edge of curdling. It was soft, barely above a whisper. In this silence, where only the flickering lights made an occasional hum, Crowley could hear it loud and clear. It was almost soothing.

_"Go to sleep you little baby,  
Go to sleep you little baby,  
Everybody's gone in the cotton and the corn,  
Didn't leave nobody but the baby."_

With a low, pained whine, Crowley lifted his head. That small movement alone split open the scabs in his back, and the muscles in his neck felt ready to snap. He winced, held back tears, and looked. His eyebrows flew up in spite of himself. Someone was sitting in front of his cell door, their feet propped up by its intricate metal knots. Through the gaps, he saw a female humanoid garbed in garish colors: deep greens, bright reds, and dusky purples. Her feet were bare, save for a few blooming vines coiled around her ankles. Her nails were long and claw-like as they worked, grinding some seeds into powder. Her long, dark brown hair was so tangled that it resembled dreadlocks. Dried herbs hung around her neck. Her stained lips kept moving, the song taking flight.

_"You sweet little baby,  
You sweet little baby,  
Honey and a rock and the sugar don't stop,  
Gonna bring a bottle to the baby." _

***

Crowley remained there like an idiot, still holding the ring. His body stubbornly refusing to accept what his mind was now reeling with. After everything they'd gone through, all the secrecy and friendship and fear and heartache...they still weren't completely free. They still had to look about, trembling, for the spies of Heaven and Hell. Forced to suppress their true natures yet again. Aziraphale was still terrified of Heaven. But Crowley had never been afraid of Hell, and he wasn't about to start now.

"I don't care if they're watching us. Let them see!" Crowley sounded a little wild even to his own ears. He placed the ring between them. A lighthouse in this storm. Sitting back on the balls of his feet, Crowley held onto his angel's gaze with an iron grip. "Let them see that we're not afraid of them, that they can throw whatever they want at us and it won't matter! We'll protect each other, like we always have!" He grabbed Aziraphale's hand, trying to ignore how his own was trembling. "Come on, angel. There's nothing we can't face. Not after Armageddon!"

Aziraphale was openly crying now. He brought their joined hands to his face, where he kissed the back of Crowley's hand. "I'm sorry." The words were a cracked whisper.

Crowley stared at his angel, his wonderful angel, his best friend, the only person he'd ever felt truly cared about him. A thousand different emotions flooded through him at once. So quickly that it was impossible to settle on one. Until, in the midst of countless colors, endless voices, one stood out. Brighter, louder, than the rest.

Anger.

Crowley felt his face close like a steel gate. "I'm sorry, too." He tore his hand free and got to his feet. Turning his back on Aziraphale, he began to get dressed. Forced his legs into tight leather pants and furiously buttoned up his black silk shirt.

"No, wait, Crowley!" The sound of sheets spilling on the floor. Bare feet on wooden boards. Then, Aziraphale stood before him. Cupping his face, his own streaked with tears. "Please, don't...let's talk about this, please!"

"Nothing to talk about." Crowley shrugged off his lover's hands. His cheeks grew cold in the absence of Aziraphale's touch. "It's late. I need to go." He tried to slip past the angel, who grabbed him by the arm. "Not like this!" Aziraphale pleaded. "I don't want you to think that I-"

"-Are too scared, still, to live your own life and be proud of it?" Crowley challenged. "Too late for that, angel. I get it. When you had those pricks up in the sky to contend with," he pointed upward, "you had to behave. You had to act like you were just blending in with the humans. But..." He dropped his hand, along with his voice. "...But I thought that now, after everything, you'd finally be ready to be who you are, out in the sunlight, without being scared. Without hiding. But no, nothing's changed! It's like you don't even think we could take Heaven and Hell on!"

"That's because we can't!" Aziraphale yelled, desperate. Crowley halted in his tracks. Stared at his lover with huge eyes. And finally saw the truth, right there in Aziraphale's hurt and ashamed face. The angel loved him, Crowley didn't doubt that. But his love was eclipsed by his mortal terror. The realization dropped on Crowley like a boulder, heavy and all-encompassing. But his own love lingered, like the last star before dawn. Crowley shook his head, fighting against tears that wanted to fall. "I...need to go right now, angel. We'll talk about it tomorrow." He headed for the door. This time, Aziraphale didn't stop him. Somehow, that made it worse.

Crowley stomped out of the bookshop, blinded by his tears. He didn't see the speeding headlights. And he heard the screeching tires just a second too late.

***

Groaning, feeling fresh blood pool from his newly-opened wounds, Crowley at last matched a name to that face. Strong-jawed, thin-lipped, large-eyed, and pale as a corpse. "Oleander." He rasped.

The Poison Demon stopped singing, her black eyes - the pupils being in a permenant state of dilation - instantly landing on Crowley's golden ones. For a second, she looked surprised. Then, a knowing smile tugged at her stained lips. "Don't let the others hear that you're up, or it's off to the whipping post you go."

Crowley shuddered at the memory, triggering further jabs of pain. 

Oleander raised her clawed hands in surrender. "Relax," she lowered her feet from the door, "just because I've been assigned to be your jailor doesn't mean I have to be a bitch about it." Sliding to the floor, she examined him. Crowley squirmed under her gaze. He and the Poison Demon had rarely bumped into each other, and had never said more than two words to each other. However, he knew enough about her to be afraid. As her name and title implied, Oleander reigned over every poisonous plant on Earth. She'd lovingly created each one in her clawed hands before rising up and planting their seeds in the soil, encouraging them to bloom and sprout and spread. She had whispered in the ears of poisoners, of course, and had taught legions of women which herbs could cure and which could kill. Many of those women would wind up hanged, burned, or stoned for witchcraft.  
Of course, she'd had a lot less to do once synthetic poisons came around. But like the ivy that coils around a tree, fighting it for the light and rain, Oleander guarded her niche fiercely and her plants even more so. 

In the state he was in, Crowley was completely at her mercy. She could not destroy him, but she could push him to the damn edge. 

Smirking, Oleander reached into the deep recesses of her robes. She extracted a fistful of dry leaves. To Crowley's shock, she held them out to him. "Do you mind lighting these up?"

Crowley mumbled something that could have passed for, "What is this?"

"Nightshade," came the female demon's reply. "It'll help you sleep. And it burns quickly, too, so no one passing by will see them."

Crowley peered up at her, shaking his head in confusion. "...Why?" He managed.

Oleander shook her head. Waved the nightshade in his face. "We'll talk about it later. First, you need to rest, and with a back like that, I don't see you falling asleep on your own." She quirked a thick brow. "Well? What'll it be?"

Crowley wanted to spit all sorts of foul curses at her. Tell her that he didn't need her help to sleep. But his entire form was a horror show of anguish, and more pain was on the way. A little respite was, for lack of a better term, a blessing.

Scowling, Crowley nodded. With the last shred of energy at his disposal, he set the nightshade alight. Oleander dropped the burning pile of leaves. Thick, milky plumes of smoke rose, filling the cell with a strangely floral scent. The moment it reached his nostrils, Crowley felt his eyelids getting heavy. His body slackened. His mind went black. The last thing he heard before passing out completely was Oleander's voice, whispering, "Sleep, well, my scaly friend. We have much to discuss."


	2. Aloe Vera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks pass. Topsoil, Aziraphale is hysterical with worry and tries every avenue to try to find his beloved's soul, even begging the Almighty for help. In Hell, where it has in fact been three years due to time moving so much more slowly, Crowley continues to suffer at the hands of his former colleagues. The only one who shows him anything close to kindness is his jailor, Oleander. In secret, she heals his wounds and plans to offer him more in exchange for something. But an unexpected complication comes in the form of a prayer from the Other Side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad to see so much positive attention given to my little idea! I hope this chapter lives up to the first.

Life in Hell is less painful than boring. If you're a demon that isn't Crowley, that is. Each 24-hour cycle is nearly identical to all others, with only a few alterations to distinguish them.

There were no windows in Hell, no view of the sky. Morning or evening, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting pools of wan light in the otherwise dim hallways. The clocks moved impossibly slowly, marking what each demon had to be doing. Each day at four, they were given their duties. Some could be completed in minutes; others could take years. The demons would then spend the next nineteen hours ticking tasks off their lists. Corrupt a politician here. Put a child on a life of crime there. Trigger a pub brawl. Tempt a husband to cheat on his wife. Convince his wife that it would only be fair if she repaid his betrayal with a knife between the ribs. On and on and on it went. Some were permitted to go to Earth to oversee the Hell-raising in person. But on most days, they were forced to stand in a spot or sit behind a desk, clacking away at a typewriter that was missing half its keys. And then, when the day's last sin had been committed, the last soul claimed, the demons were left with a few hours of free time. They spent that free time wandering about aimlessly, constantly brushing shoulders and rubbing elbows with each other. Lacking any form of entertainment other than tormenting each other, they almost looked forward to be putting back to work.

That was the blueprint of every single day. Or at least, it had been. Until Crowley the traitor showed up again, sans a body.

From the moment he appeared, he'd unintentionally triggered an indefinite holiday in Hell. Everyone's hours were shortened, so as to leave time to shout out possible future punishments and make wagers on current ones. How long would he last this time? How much blood would he have to lose before he passed out? How many bones did the torturer - who changed each day - have to shatter before the traitor begged for mercy? 

Every time, Crowley outlasted all expectations. And at the end of every session, when watching a fellow demon cut, bruise, and maim the traitor lost its flavor for the day, the crowd would disperse. Beelzebub would raise their hand, and Oleander would rise, bow before them, and drag Crowley back to his cell. She would remain at her post until the cycle began again.

This went on for three years in Hell's time. Not a long time at all by any of their standards. But it quickly became as natural to them as its previous routine had.

For the Poison Demon, this new pattern brought with it a thrilling edge. The terrifying excitement of doing something in secret, knowing that exposure could be right around the corner.

***

Azirphale shot up with a cry, knocking over a pile of antique books. Normally, he would have been mortified. Now, he could not have cared less.

The nightmare held onto him for a long, painful moment, like a leech being pulled from a bloody wound. Then, gradually, it dissolved in the early morning sunlight. But the horror remained. Just as it had remained every day since that awful night. 

The angel could still recall it so clearly, he didn't even have to close his eyes. He could still hear the echoing squeal of tires on tar, then a soft thump that would change everything. Upon looking out the window, fearing the worst, Aziraphale had seen something he'd prayed was just a bad dream, an illusion. The car awkwardly pulled over, the headlights still burning brightly. Its owner climbing out, blabbering in terror as he hovered over the body. And that body, splayed out like a broken rag doll on the tar road. Dressed in all black, with coppery hair catching the headlights like a hellish halo. And the growing puddle of blood around his head. Aziraphale had let out a strange cry then, thrown on a robe and been outside before he knew it. Had he miracled himself there, or had he simply run as quickly as he could?  
Aziraphale had thrown himself before the body, and cried out again at the sight of Crowley, his dear Crowley, staring up at him with blank and lifeless eyes. Those yellow snake's eyes, always glowing with emotion and thought, were now like two lumps of icy gold. Beautiful, but soulless.

The sobs had taken over by then. Wailing like a foghorn and trembling like a leaf, Aziraphale had collected the body in his arms and cradled it close, both pained and relieved to feel that it was still warm. He'd rocked the body back and forth, the front of his robe and his hands painted crimson, as he'd wept and kissed Crowley's head in vain. "I'm sorry," he'd said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The police had arrived not long after. Aziraphale had fought like an animal when they forced him to let go of Crowley. He'd that they meant no harm, that they were only doing their jobs, and that, besides, that wasn't Crowley anymore. It was just his vessel; an artificial body made for him to walk the earth. And yet, he'd fought and kicked, bit and screamed. 

Later, when he would be sent home with a few empty "I'm sorry for your loss"'s, Aziraphale had tried to function. Somewhat. For one thing, he'd thrown away the robe. He'd never want to see it again, even if he got the stains out. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he'd restored the bedroom to its previous, pristine state. Then, he'd headed for the shower. He'd stood under the onslaught of hot water for a white, letting it wash over him, before reaching for some soap. Without thinking, he'd taken Crowley's soap. Rosemary and lemon. The smell of it had broken the glass dam he'd built, and the angel had dropped to his knees, his tears mixing with the water.

***

Oleander sat on her stool, flipping through her journal. The pages were made from animal skins, the words and illustrations inked with blood - some was hers, some wasn't. The cover was threadbare, the spine bulging with centuries of stitches. Within it were all of her creations. Every plant she had invented, and all of its variations. Its appearance, where it grew, what it did when ingested. There had been a few copies made of her pages, of course. Her pupils had begged for permission, and she had finally caved. But now, all those copies were gone. Burned to ashes, most likely. Only this remained.  
Not surprisingly, most of the plants in this journal were poisonous. But every so often, Oleander had found it in herself to make something a bit less lethal. She had had no idea why, but her students had been grateful. Most of them had wanted to learn the ways of herbology in order to heal and mend those around them. They had been thanked by being accused of witchcraft and dying a screaming death.

Shaking her head free of such thoughts, Oleander found what she had been looking for. She went over what the plant did, then examined Crowley through the knots of iron that made up his cell door. He was curled up in a tight little ball, his back to her. It was a patchwork quilt of congealing blood, puckered flesh, and reopened lashings, lying atop a black and blue surface. His hair, now shoulder-length and greasy, was spread out like a fan behind him. Every shred of lean muscle he'd had was gone, leaving him with nothing but skin and bones. His pants were little more than rags, his legs like chopsticks. If any human had been subjected to such tribulations, they would have died or gone insane long ago. But fortunately - or unfortunately - Crowley was not human, even though his soul had strangely retained the shape of one.

It was like what they all whispered, whenever his name was on their lips. He'd gone native. 

They had said the same about Oleander herself, once. But she hadn't been topsoil since the 1730s. Since then, they had reaffirmed their conviction that she was one of them, and always would be.

If Crowley agreed to her deal, then that would change very soon.

But for the moment, other things required her attention. 

***

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Crowley's body had been destroyed, and his soul had been forced to desert it.

Aziraphale knew how it worked. Heaven and Hell loved to act like they were as different as day and night, as earth and sea. But deep down, they were frighteningly similar. They had a similar heirarchy, their rules were almost identical, and their policies were indistinguishable from one another. And for both Heaven and Hell, there was only one procedure to be followed when their representative's body was discorporated: said representative had to return to Head Office posthaste.

Which meant that there was only one place that Crowley could be.

Aziraphale had gone to Hell only once, when he'd worn his partner's skin. He'd been bonked on the head by demons in poor disguises, and had awakened in their domain. He hadn't been awake to see the passage they had used, or to hear whatever incantation they may have said. Humans believed that there were several gates to Hell spotted all over Earth. Mount Etna, for one. Fengdu County. Hellam Township. Waipio Valley. But were any of them legitimate portals between worlds? Aziraphale had no idea: he'd never been told how to get there, not by Crowley and certainly not by his superiors. From what he'd seen and heard, it had seemed that demons could simply crawl out of the earth at any point, without needing to walk through a specific doorway.  
Which left the angel with only one option: to visit every single fabled gate to Hell and see for himself.

Aziraphale's grief and panic guided him to each location, flaming sword and flask of holy water in hand. To avoid leaving a divine trace, the angel traveled as humans did. It sounded insane, and even a bit comical. Here he was, a divine being forged by God Herself, capable of reshaping aspects of reality as he saw fit, moving across the globe in what was essentially a giant tin can with wings. But he was far too on edge, too consumed by worry, to see the humor in it. Crowley would. It would be one of the first things Aziraphale would tell him once he'd brought him back home. Right after accepting his marriage proposal...in the hopes, of course, that the demon would still want to marry him after all that had happened.  
One by one, the angel checked the locations off his list.  
On the Bay of Naples, he scoured the shores of Lake Avernus until he found the cave that the legends spoke of. He went so far into the cave that it was only thanks to a miracle that he was able to find his way out again. But during his time down there, he smelled no brimstone, he heard no cackles, and he felt no evil.  
In the middle of the Roman Forum, there was a mysterious pit called Lacus Curtius. According to legend, a courageous soldier named Curtius drove his horse into the pit in a heroic attempt to close it. He succeeded, at the cost of his and his horse's lives. Miracling himself invisible to both the locals and the tourists, Aziraphale descended into the pit with every sense on alert. But once again, he felt nothing but the cold dampness of stony enclosure.  
Lerna Lake held nothing but tall grass and moss-covered stones.  
He searched every field in Sicily for the spot where Hades had presumably dragged Persephone to the Underworld, much to the annoyance of the locals.  
He scaled Mount Osore.  
He stayed in Murgo for a week, covering every bit of land in the hilly village for the so-called 'gateway of darkness'.

All in vain. 

After each failed search, after each fruitless day, after each crushed hope, Aziraphale curled up in a ball and wept until he passed out. Hoping against hope that Crowley was holding on.

 _Just a little while longer, my love,_ he begged Crowley, _please. I can't lose you. Not again._

***

Reaching into her sleeve, Oleander summoned forth a small, glass vial filled with what appeared to be green goo, freckled with dark specks. Aloe vera. Great for healing wounds. She inhaled, looked around, and deemed the coast clear. Or as clear as it was ever going to be. Moving as soundlessly as possible, she unlocked the cell's door and slipped inside. Closing it behind her, while holding onto the key, Oleander knelt before Crowley. He hadn't so much as twitched since she'd entered. Maybe he'd passed out again. Or maybe he just didn't care. Oleander pulled the cork from the vial, which she then tipped over her open palm. Once she had enough of the green substance, she recapped the vial and put it away. From there, she got to work gently spreading the aloe vera across Crowley's back, filling each wound with it. Crowley winced and moaned softly in his sleep, but otherwise did not move. Once his back had been coated, Oleander moved to the prisoner's front. She winced. Just hours before, the punishment had been to club Crowley repeatedly with a bat studded with nails. The proof of it showed in his dislocated jaw and bleeding eye. Oleander sprinkled the remaining gel on the eye, but she knew that his jaw would need a bit more work.

Taking a deep breath, and praying to Satan for strength, Oleander reached down and gently cupped Crowley's face. Lifted it from the cold stones. Crowley winced again. This time, his bleary eyes opened. They met Oleander's black ones, and revealed no emotion. He knew what she was doing. She'd been doing it since the first night, and still hadn't told him why.

"Hold still," she whispered, "and don't make a sound. I'm going to fix your jaw."

Crowley nodded a little. Oleander nodded in return before projecting her magic into her hands. Into his face. She felt the coronoid pushing itself back, towards the glenoid fossa. It met its match, clicked into place, and the pain ebbed away. Smiling, she loosened her grip and patted Crowley's sunken cheek. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Crowley groaned, pulling himself free of the Poison Demon's grasp. "Why?" He asked. "Why are you helping me?" His voice was rough, his dry tongue struggling to form the words.

"I told you: I need you alive for what I'm planning." Daring a glance at the cell door, and sensing that their time was almost up, she leaned closer. "I'm working on something. Once it's done, I'll tell you what I'm thinking. Until then...pleasant dreams." She took a fistful of powder from her pocket and blew it in Crowley's face. He was out like a light a second later. 

That was when she heard footsteps off in the distance. Scrambling to her feet, Oleander hurried out of the cell. She closed the door as silently as she could. The footsteps came closer. With trembling hands, she twisted the key in the lock and plopped herself on her stool, going back to flipping through her journal.

A shadow fell over her. "'Ello, Oleander." The foul stench told her who it was before she looked up. Barely suppressing a sigh, she bowed her head. "Hello, Duke Hastur."

***

The bookshop was silent as the front door creaked open. With the flick of a switch, the lights blazed. Every shadow was chased to the corner. Every moat of dust flickered in the air like newborn fireflies. Normally, returning home elevated Aziraphale. But nothing had been normal recently.

Slowly, on autopilot, he dropped his things on the floor. His briefcase was an old one; he'd used it back in the forties, to deliver first-edition books of prophecy to a bunch of Nazi spies. Now, as it fell unceremoniously to the floor, its jaws dropped open. Rumpled clothes, maps, and travel guides spilled out of it. Aziraphale gave no notice. He simply walked forward on legs that hardly felt like his own. His surroundings, his beloved bookshop filled with novels and atlases and collections he'd spent centuries piecing together, suddenly meant nothing to him. It was a mere gray void. What lay ahead, in the part of the store closed off to customers, was the only thing that interested the angel. Even if his memories tied to it were far from pleasant.

The transportation portal was still there, as clear as it had been on the Armageddon-That-Wasn't. He remembered all too well what had happened when he'd accidentally stepped into it, distracted by the righteous and stupid Sergeant Shadwell. But before that, Aziraphale remembered his discussion with the Metatron. How he'd begged for the War to be annulled, for the Earth to be saved. The Metatron's response had cut through him like a spear of ice.

_"The point is not to avoid the War. The point is to win it."_

That was the moment that had truly changed everything. Up until that point, Aziraphale had had two legs planted on two different sides. On one had been Crowley, his best friend, his companion through the centuries, for whom he'd nurtured a decades-old affection - ever since the night of the Blitz, really, when the demon had nonchalantly saved Aziraphale's precious books and asked for nothing in return. On the other had been Heaven, and all that it represented. Being a part of it had made him feel right for eons. He was good. One of the good guys. But when he'd heard those words, spoken without regret or sorrow for the beautiful planet that, in the end, was supposed to be little more than a battlefield, Aziraphale had felt as though something inside him had broken. No, broken free. Awakened from a deep sleep and finally opened his eyes to reality. And it had cut him deeper than hellfire ever could. That had been the moment when he'd totally, truly, turned his back on Heaven.

And yet, here he was. On his knees, hands clasped together.

"Er...hello." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I'm, er, sorry for the disturbance, but, er...I need to speak to a higher authority."

He expected the Metatron to return, to brand him traitor and warn him against ever contacting Heaven again. Or smug Gabriel, ready to offer a helping hand in exchange for a good grovel. Or any of the other angels, ready to make Aziraphale squirm before they came to an agreement. Deep down, Aziraphale even hoped to see God. To hear Her voice, to feel Her love.

But no matter how hard he prayed, nobody answered.

***

Hastur leered down at the Poison Demon like she was a present he couldn't wait to rip open, Hastur jerked his head at the cell. "How's the traitor holding up?"

Oleander blinked, forced to reel in some of the sarcasm. "In the past three years, he's been subjected to every manner of torture known - and unknown - to Man. I doubt he's going to take up mountain-climbing any time soon."

Hastur, completely missing her tone, simply frowned. "Why would he go mountain-climbing?"

Oleander rolled her eyes, pretending she was eyeing the mold on the walls.

"Well, no matter!" Hastur grinned. "He's ours now. Ours to do with what we will, as it should be!" He turned to face Crowley's limp form. "I can't wait to have a go at him again!"

"Yes, I'm sure you'll have him screaming and begging for mercy." Once again, Oleander's sarcasm flew right over the frog demon's pale head. Closing her journal, she leaned forward. "Is there something I can do for you, Duke Hastur?"

"Well, yes." Hastur leered at her. "You could keep me company. The prisoner's feeble and weak; I'm sure you can leave him alone for a while." This was far from the first time the Duke of Hell had attempted to court Oleander. The Poison Demon found it annoying from every standpoint. For one thing, she disliked Hastur for his dull and unimaginative nature, as well as his nauseating odor. But he was her social superior: he had a title while she had none. Ergo, she could not do what she wanted and tell him to sod off. Instead, she thought of another, convenient escape. "And shirk my duties? No, thank you." She exposed her neck to the duke. "I'm still walking off the last punishment Lord Beelzebub bestowed on me." There rested profound, jagged scar that, had it been just a little deeper, would have cut through her jugular and brought her as close to extinction that a demon could reach without holy water.

"Ah, yes. I remember." Hastur nodded. "Lord Beelzebub was a little harsh, if you ask me. You slaughtered the attendants of a church during Sunday Mass for Satan's sake! If anything, you should have been promoted!"

"But I risked the exposure of our existence." Oleander recited what she said whenever that story came up. "Lord Beelzebub was merciful. I deserved worse."

Hastur nodded, hands folded at his front. "Of course, of course." He tilted his head. "All the same, I think you were magnificent. More demons should outright slaughter the worshippers of our enemies, if only to spite them. Besides, those worms don't deserve the air they breathe."

Speaking of breathing air, Hastur's stench had thoroughly filled the hallways. It smelled of rotting flesh, raw sewage, and putrid swamps, all mixed into one. Oleander was able to stop breathing, which helped, but it was not something she could do indefinitely. Trying not to make her lack of breathing too evident, she spoke. "Very well, Duke Hastur. Who am I to disrespect your wishes?" She hesitated. "I just need a minute."

"Oh," Hastur beamed like the cat that had eaten the canary, "Very good." He pointed to the way he'd come. "I'll wait for you. Don't take too long, eh?"

"Of course not." Oleander assured him, forcing a stale smile on her face. It fell like a piece of ill-fitting clothing the second Hastur turned around. She waited for him to leave her field of vision, for his footsteps to fade. She looked to Crowley, and was pleased to see that her ministrations were beginning to take effect. Good. She needed him alive, and she needed him well. It was going to be a difficult journey.

Just as she was about to leave, something reached her ears. Not her physical ones. The ones hard-wired for prayers. Demons were able to detect worship and prayers for the Opposition in order to derail said worship, and spit in their enemie's coffee. Something about this, however, felt different. Ethereal. Magical.

Suddenly realizing who it must have been, Oleander felt her throat tighten. She focused on the prayer. Heard the desperation, almost felt it.

"Please," a trembling male voice whispered in her head, "please, I need help. I...I need to find Crowley. I don't care that he's a demon, I don't care what you think. Please, guide me to Hell so that I may rescue him. I won't leave him there to rot! Do this for me, please, and I'll do whatever you want. I'll Fall. I'll allow you to perform every violation on my person, on my soul, as you see fit. Just please, please, help me find the entrance to Hell."

As Oleander listened to this frantic plea for help, and the broken sobs that punctuated it, she considered her options. An angel could prove useful to her plan, even the lowest of the low. He had the flaming sword, after all. God must have entrusted it to him for some reason. And he had managed to help stop the End of the World, after all. Maybe he wasn't as pathetic as she'd heard. Despite a part of her brain insisting that it was a bad idea, that angels were the enemy, Oleander found herself answering the prayer. Like a farmer putting eggs in a basket, she reached out and placed all the important details in Aziraphale's mind. The effort made her dizzy, but the moment the act was done, she felt a thrilling rush of adrenaline.

No going back now. She'd better put her plan into action fast.

An angel was coming to Hell.


	3. Hogweed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The deal is struck and an escape is made. Still shaking off the aftershocks, the three entities head toward London. Aziraphale finds Crowley scarred from his time in Hell, and Oleander goes exploring. She soon runs into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the hits and kudos! I hope to hear what you guys think! Enjoy!

Oleander had never repaired a vessel before. Surprise, surpise. It wasn't in her job description. But the demons who would normally be in charge of making and repairing bodies for their colleagues were among the biggest gossips in Hell. Such was to be expected when your skills were called upon so rarely, and yet, when they were, it could take weeks - or even years - to get the job done. So, swapping juicy scoops about their fellow Fallen was a delightful way to kill time. And if anyone found out what Oleander had in mind, her punishment would make Crowley's look like a spa weekend. Which was why she spent three Hell years slipping into the Vats Department at ungodly (even for them) hours, when no one was around, with a pair of thick latex gloves and the Body Builder's Manual tucked under her arm.

All those tense nights and mistakes at last came to fruition. 

Grinning from ear to ear, revealing two rows of crooked teeth stained by centuries of consuming poisoned brews, Oleander examined her handiwork. 

The greatest challenge had come in the form of the fractured skull. Some fragments had even lodged themselves in the soft brains underneath, and the blood loss had been significant. Careful not to dirty the manual, Oleander had followed the instructions to the letter. She had drawn the symbols in the vessel's blood, recited the words, and felt the energy channel through her. Piece by piece, layer by layer, the brain healed and the skull was restored. The process took months to accomplish, with Oleander keeping a watchful eye out for any complications, any deformities, any bumps on the road. If anyone had bothered to check, they would have picked up on the traces of magic left behind. But no one did, and the hard part was done.   
Then came the blood. It looked, smelled, and tasted exactly like human blood, but it wasn't quite. Like the rest of the body, it was a substance made out of old magic that was designed to last and function indefinitely. It was the same magic that the world was made of. So, Oleander was left with no choice but to make more herself and then slowly pump it into the body's veins. That, too, took months to complete. The spells were difficult, the rituals multi-stepped, and the first few batches were poor. More than once, the Poison Demon had to toss out weeks' worth of work and start over from scratch. But in the end, the blood was made and refilled the body once more. 

During all this, Oleander hid her project beneath the dirty, shaky blocks of the Vats Department. No one had changed those tiles since the American Civil War, so it had only seemed logical that no one would bother in the immediate future. Each time she had to work on the body, the Poison Demon got on her knees, dug her claws into the crevices between the plates and carefully lifted them up, revealing the gaps beneath. Then, when the night's work was complete, she would slip the vessel back underground and meticulously place the slates back in their proper order. No one was none the wiser. Oleander didn't even have to put an extra spell in the chamber to erase traces of her presence. If the Body Builders caught a whiff of it, they would just assume it had come from the mildew spreading across the damp ceiling.

After all that, at long last, the body was done. One last thorough gander revealed every imperfection rectified, every compromise taken care of. Oleander felt so relieved that she could have passed out, the months' pent-up anxiety finally catching up to her.

Instead, she carefully put the body back in its hiding place. Then, a quick look at the clock calmed her down. There was a bit of time left before Crowley's daily torture session. Just enough for her to strike the bargain. 

***

It had come to him as swiftly and suddenly as a summer rainstorm. A blessing. A cool drizzle after three weeks of parched desperation. But it had not come from the place Aziraphale had prayed to, or expected to hear any answer to.

Beyond the terror that it had instilled in him, it had also left the angel more than a little puzzled. Why would a demon send an angel instructions on how to reach Hell? It hadn't been Crowley; Aziraphale would have recognized his magic anywhere. It was as singularly Crowley's as a fingerprint on a human or a barcode on a piece of merchandise. Crowley's magic was as cool and elusive as summertime shadow, edged with both sweetness and sin. When the two of them were in close proximity, Aziraphale could feel his lover's magic reach out to his in a ghostly embrace, forming a gentle braid of power between them. Pulling them towards each other.  
This magic was nothing like that. It was wild and earthly, like a storm in the middle of a forest. When he'd first sensed it, Aziraphale had felt a jolt of fear, like a child spotting a spider crawling up his arm. And yet, it had answered his prayer. Given him what he'd needed.

Which left him with only one path to take.

That same night, Aziraphale changed into more...combative gear, miracled onto his body after he ordered it from a fencing site. He was not a violent bloke, not in the slightest. The closest he'd come to showing aggression towards other living things had been during his time in Hell, when he'd playfully splashed holy water at the onlooking demons who had gathered to watch Crowley die. Of course, no one had actually gotten hurt: there had been a screen between him and the demons. He'd also transported that American soldier away when he'd aimed a gun at him, Crowley, and Sergeant Shadwell right before the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. At the time, he'd hoped he hadn't sent him anywhere unpleasant. Later, he'd learned that he'd actually delivered the man to a beach in Florida. 

But this was a whole other story. Aziraphale knew that someone could very well get hurt. Or be destroyed, given the fact that he was bringing a fire extinguisher filled to the brim with holy water as well as his flaming sword. But when he truly looked inside himself, the angel found that he did not care. Those demons had kept Crowley from him, kept him prisoner for nearly a month and done who knows what to him. If he could avoid directly harming anyone, all the better. However, Aziraphale found that, if it meant saving his lover, Aziraphale would use the holy water. He would probably feel guilty about it for a long time afterward, but he would live with it. 

Fully prepared, both physically and mentally, Aziraphale took a deep breath and stepped out of the bookshop. The road ahead blazed as though built from bricks made of lava. "Hold on, dearest," he whispered, "I'm coming."

***

Oleander wove through the crowd like a salmon swimming down a river. She walked normally, trying to keep her face as blank and bleak as the rest of her lot's. From the corner of her eyes, she peered at her fellow demons. They had all been God's children once, Her most perfect creatures. And here they were now, disfigured beyond recognition, stripped of recognition and divine love. Forced to reshape themselves, from their names to their forms, because those they had been given had become meaningless, empty. Some of them had even lost their wings during the Fall. Oleander had been lucky enough to keep hers, and had mended them with her extensive knowledge of healing potions. But beyond that, they had lost hope. Hope that there could ever be an existence for them outside these moldy walls, beyond these stark lights and inky shadows.  
That was where she was headed. And she had to get away while there was still one little shred of hope left in her. 

The Poison Demon made it back to her post with little fuss. Looking around to make sure that no one was nearby, she unlocked the cell door. Crowley looked up from his sitting position against the wall. When he saw who it was, he sighed. "I'm not hurt."

"I know. I healed you myself." The last one had been a test to her skills. Crowley's legs had been crushed under heavy boulders just the day before, the bones reduced to marble-sized shards trapped in feverish, bloated skin. After knocking him out to spare him the pain, Oleander had siphoned her strength into the ruined limbs. Slowly, she had felt the bones coming together like parts of a shattered vase; the blood return to its vessels, the muscles mending themselves. It had cost her more energy than she would have been willing to admit. She rarely slept, but after she'd pulled her hands back, Oleander had wanted to crash for a century or more. Instead, she'd spent the rest of the evening chomping down Asian ginseng. 

Sitting in front of Crowley, cross-legged, she smirked. "You're welcome, by the way."

Crowley scoffed, looking away.

Oleander's smirk melted into a scowl. "I've spent the last three Hell years healing your wounds and removing your pain and that's how you respond?" She had also given him a piece of cloth with which he could tie back his growing, greasy hair. But she didn't mention that.

"You're only doing it for yourself." Crowley hissed, his yellow eyes glaring harshly. "Even I can ssssee that."

Oleander drummed her long-nailed fingers on her knees. "Point taken." She straightened. "All the same, I'm ready to tell you what I have in mind."

"Oh, finally." Crowley rested his sunken cheek against his fist. "Please, do ssshare."

Oleander had been around the perpetrator of the Original Sin long enough to know that he only hissed like that when he was in a bad mood. Even though she'd been taking good care of him, he was nowhere near as strong as he'd been on Earth. All his muscle had deteriorated and, despite her efforts, many of the torture sessions had left their mark. That was why she got right to the point. "I'll help you escape."

Her words hit Crowley like a slap. He blinked twice, hard, staring at her as though she'd grown a third arm in the middle of her forehead. "What?"

"I fixed your vessel. I got a plan. It's all ready to go." She held up a claw, long and curved and thick like a cat's. "But it won't be for free."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at her. The effect was twice as effective due to the fact that his eyes had sunken in, resembling lanterns in dark tunnels. "Let's hear it."

Oleander grinned. Pushed some of her dark brown tangles out of her face. "You have to take me with you."

" _ **What?!**_ "

"You heard me." Oleander could feel her courage growing, along with her excitement. "You have to take me with you, to Earth. And you have to teach me how to live among the humans."

"You're crazy." Crowley flatly stated.

"Am I?" Oleander snapped. "What should I do then, Crowley? Huh? Just stay here and exist, forever, and just get bored and numb and miserable like everyone else here?"

"Yes!" Crowley replied.

"Well, too bad, because that's not what I want to do!" Oleander was on the verge of shouting at this point. "I don't want to _exist_ anymore, I want to _live!_ And since you seem to have been having a blast on Earth these last six thousand years, I think I deserve a shot at it, too!"

Crowley stared at her like he'd never seen her before. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape. Oleander sat before him, huffing and red-faced, as she felt him absorbing her words. She could almost see the gears turning in his head, beneath that bruised skin and filthy hair. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. "How do you know I won't just ditch you once we reach Earth?"

Oleander smiled, baring her crooked teeth. She'd foreseen that possibility. "Then I'll blow the whistle on you." Seeing his face go whiter than hers, she nodded. "Oh, yes. I'll let all of Hell know where you are, and I'll claim that I was just following your scent. You'll be back in this cell before you have the chance to scream."

Crowley glowered at her in a way that would have made Satan cringe. Oleander stood her ground, her face carved from stone. They sat there in silence, sizing each other up. Two demons who both wanted to get out: one wanted to return to the freedom he'd had, while the other wanted a chance at it for the first time. 

Finally, Crowley let out a hissing sigh. Shook his head and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "You're horrid." He told her.

"No," Oleander corrected him sweetly. "I'm poison." She offered him her claw, brows raised. He took it. They shook once.

Partners.

***

On the day of the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale had learned something very important: that angels and demons weren't as different as one would think - especially one on either side. As proof of this, he'd managed to possess (or, rather, share) the body of Madame Tracy, a perfectly delightful older woman who he still exchanged letters with. Before then, he'd always been told that angels couldn't possess people. And yet, he'd managed without too much of a hustle. Yet the question had remained afterward: if angels and demons shared that particular skill, what other power did they have in common?

Now, he would get his answer. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and thought of Hell. His crystalline memory brought back every detail as though he had been there that very morning. He envisioned the moldy halls, with flickering fluorescent lights and dripping pipes. He could almost smell the closed-off stench that came to places that never aired out, mixed with ten million unwashed bodies. He heard every distant drip, every heavy footstep. He recalled the demons who'd gathered to see Crowley's demise: hideous things, warped by sin and dark with wickedness. That Crowley could belong to such a group had left Aziraphale appalled.   
Who among those creatures, he wondered, had sent out the flare?   
The angel felt the ground begin to crumble, and the smell of sulphur filled the air. When he looked down, he saw a gaping hole yawning into the earth. It was still early morning, and no one was out and about in St. James Park yet. By the time the humans arrived to jog, walk their dogs, and feed the ducks, the crater would be closed. As though it had never been there at all.

With a deep breath, the angel stepped into the cut, which proceeded to swallow him whole.

***

It was time. Time for the day's torture session. Time for the plan.

As Beelzebub's order echoed through the corridors, Oleander made quick work of the lock. Cleverly, Crowley did what he'd been doing every day since his jailor had been healing them: cast a weak illusion on himself to appear more wounded and crippled than he actually was. Smirking at the fellow demon's trick, Oleander locked his wrists together and led him towards the arena. It had been built especially for him, and had enough seats to provide for every demon in Hell. It had more than a passing resemblance to the outdoor theatres of Ancient Greece, and even had spotlights pointing at the place of interest. Not bad for a place that could barely work the fax machine most days.

Today, Crowley's torturer was Dagon. Demon Lord Prince of the Sea. Beelzebub's right-hand demon. And a real whiz with a pair of maces. 

She heard Crowley gulp loudly, and found herself feeling kind of sorry for him. He had to go along with it as usual, if only for the first half. That way, the demons would be lulled into thinking that this was just any other day. Besides, they needed to buy the angel some time. Oleander reached inside her robes and was relieved to find that the hogweed was still there. Contact with this plant caused the skin to erupt in severe blisters, and if the sap got in your eyes, it would blind you. The sample she had now was small, barely the size of a walnut; but with a little coaxing, it would spread faster than a wildfire on a windy day.  
Without thinking, she squeezed Crowley's arm. Then, she gave him a hard shove. He fell to his knees in front of Dagon, who grinned at him with teeth like broken glass. "Hello, traitor!" She purred, holding the maces high. "Let's play!"

Oleander watched, biting her bottom lip, as the blows landed. As blood spilled, as bones cracked. Crowley never made a noise except for the occasional grunt, and he never broke eye contact with Dagon. The Poison Demon watched with unspoken admiration as the Snake of Eden took impact after impact without breaking down. Not once did he cry out, or beg for mercy. Even when, following a particularly hard strike to the face, he spat out a handful of teeth. The demons screamed, yelling at him to either give up or keep going. Once again, everyone lost their bets. Beelzebub watched from their throne; they never smiled or smirked, but sadistic delight was emanating from every diseased pore. Oleander's black eyes drifted to the clock. Reaching for the hogseed again, she counted the minutes until the session was half-over. Barely breathing in the process.

Twenty minutes.

Ten.

Five.

Four.

Three...

The ceiling came down on them in one, violent rush. Boards and cement and wires showered down in a deafening downpour. Demons screamed and ducked for cover. Beelzebub shot up, shocked, as the arena was plunged into a thick mushroom cloud.

A burning arc cut through the dust like a knife through melting butter. The dredge cleared, and two brilliant white wings spread out. Oleander gasped, eyes wide, her plan forgotten. 

Dagon was out cold, lying in an undignified pile. Crowley, similarly, was on the floor; his black wings were out, having shielded him from the worst of the wreckage. Rising above both of them, like a shining star, was an angel. _The_ angel. Sheathed in an armor of thick, white fabric, with only his very angry face exposed, the celestial being held the flaming sword with both hands. A strange, bulking item of red metal hung from his soft waist. A modern weapon? His fists were white-knuckled, his stance defiant. His eyes, Oleander saw, were glowing. " _ **Leave. Him. Alone.**_ " The words were iron, red-hot and firm.  
Crowley looked up from beneath his wings, and let out a choked noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

The rest of Hell was stunned into still, stone-like silence. 

But it wouldn't last.

Oleander reached into her pocket, seized the hogweed, and quickly tucked it in between the tiles' cracks. "Go on, little guy," she whispered urgently. "Grow! _**Grow!**_ " The effect was instantaneous. Ten-foot stalks, crowned with white little flowers, shot up from the floor. Spreading like a tipped-over jar of green and white, the hogweed assaulted the arena with hungry menace. The demons screeched as the plants touched them, causing painful blisters to break out across their skin. Some screamed even louder, their hands over their eyes. The hogweed spread even more quickly, as if sated by the demons' pain. Only Crowley and the angel were spared, the plant carefully tip-toeing around them. Beelzebub shot up from their throne, eyes wide and posture stiff. Even the flies above their head seemed agitated, buzzing with vigor. They looked around, trying to find a culprit, a cause.

Then, their eyes locked with Oleander's. Pinning the Poison Demon to the spot. 

For a few nanoseconds, the Prince of Hell could only stare. The pieces coming together in their head. Then, they screamed, "OLEANDER!"

The Poison Demon took this as her cue. "Come on!" She ran to the arena. Her yell snapped the angel out of his reverie. With a yell, he swung his sword at a demon who'd started towards them. Crowley managed to break free of his restraints, his yellow eyes wide and alert. "Quick as you can!" Oleander cried. "Chop, chop!" Standing before Crowley, she offered her claw. He seized it, and she hauled him to his feet. "Aziraphale!" Crowley called. The angel - Aziraphale - immediately turned away from his foe, who howled as a stalk of hogweed whacked him full in the face. The angel and Crowley ran to each other, and embraced. For a second, maybe less, they could only see each other. Even as demonically-induced poisonous plants sprung up around them and demons were going wild with panic and pain. Then, the second ended and Crowley faced Oleander. "C'mon, Poison Demon! No time to waste!" They all joined hands, as though they had rehearsed it.

And then, they were airborne.

"Don't let them get away!" Beelzebub screamed hysterically. Balls of hellfire whizzed towards them, but Crowley redirected them with a wave of his hand. As the ceiling grew closer and closer, Oleander focused on the hogweed. Sweat beaded her forehead, her claw outstretched. The stalks grew even more, cutting through the air like the Kraken's tentacles. They joined together, quickly forming a toxic canopy beneath the trio. Cutting them off from their attackers. 

A blinding light, and then...

Earth.

***

Birdsong. Gentle, sweet, chirping through the air. And beneath it, a series of strange, unfamiliar honking.

Soft grass, cool and damp, beneath her weary body.

The smell of rain, of leaves, of nature, coupled with new scents.

Electricity in the air, soft and humming, like magic.

After what felt like forever, Oleander at last opened her eyes. She saw a dark, cloudy sky spread out above her, their bellies pregnant with future rain. It was the first time she'd seen the sky in nearly three centuries, and it took her breath away. Blinking back tears that had formed all on their own, the Poison Demon at last found the strength to sit up. Her back and hair were soggy from the grass. Rubbing her back, where her wings had swiftly retreated, she found herself looking around. Her brow furrowed with confusion.

She was sitting mere inches from where Aziraphale and Crowley were rising, slowly recovering from their escape. They were in a square of green, with a set path coiling around the grass like a white serpent. Trees reached for the sky, their branches bare and skeletal. A duck pond was a stone's throw away, where humans were tossing chunks of bread at the very eager birds. But beyond that was a world that Oleander did not understand. Tall buildings, varying in styles, built from different materials. A large clock tower in the distance. Giant red machines on wheels. More contraptions made of metal, gliding about like a school of fish. In the sky was an iron bird, flying in a perfect, unwavering line. Oleander blinked at all of this, her mind as smooth and blank as a pebble. Living among humans was going to be much, _much_ more difficult than she'd imagined.  
There was a groan, turning her attention away from the puzzling world.

Aziraphale had torn off his armor, revealing a very dapper set of clothes underneath: brown trousers, a white shirt buttoned all the way up, a checkered tie, and a cream-colored vest. Without his armor, or his sword - which lay in the grass, its fire all put out - he didn't look like an angel. He just looked like...a man. A middle-aged, unassuming man who probably liked food a little too much. He was crouching over Crowley, concern plastered on his cherubic face. "Crowley! Crowley, my love..." He cupped the demon's sunken cheeks, gentle as a farmer holding a baby chick. "Are you alright?"

Crowley groaned as he sat up, still bearing Dagon's marks, but he covered the angel's hands with his own. "M' fine, angel. Really." He winced, spat out some blood. "Or will be." 

"Oh..." Without thinking twice, Aziraphale trapped Crowley in a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in the demon's neck. Crowley didn't even hesitate, returning the embrace tenfold. Their magic wove together, encasing them in a safe little cocoon. Oleander watched this with large eyes, wishing that she could understand it. 

Finally, the two broke away from each other. Sharing a few chaste, gentle kisses before finally acknowledging the world around them. Crowley's eyes immediately landed on her, and hardened slightly. "Aziraphale," he tapped his companion's shoulder, making the angel turn, "this is the Poison Demon."

Aziraphale looked at Oleander as if only noticing her now. The adrenaline gone, the threat neutralized, he truly took her in with inquistive eyes. Apprehension marred his gentle features, but he still smiled. "Ah. Well...hello." He held out his plump hand. A peace offering. "My name is Aziraphale. Principality. Angel of the Easten Gate."

Hesitating, Oleander shook it, careful not to scratch the angel with her curved claw. "Oleander." She introduced herself. "Jailor on the sidelines, but mostly creator and ruler of all poisonous plants. Including the hogweed that helped us make a run for it."

"Ah, that's what it was!" Aziraphale's smile grew a bit more relaxed. "Hogweed. Ingenious! I never would have guessed." He spoke honestly, with interest, without a hint of mockery in his tone. Despite her general dislike and distrust of angels, Oleander thought that she might grow to like this one. 

Crowley, wincing in pain, moved to plant himself between his angel and Oleander. While she didn't know why, the gesture stung. "Right," Crowley miracled a pair of circular sunglasses onto his nose, "can we go home now please?"

"Oh, yes of course, my dear." Aziraphale took Crowley's bony elbows in his hand and gently helped him up. It was only after he'd inspected his lover that he turned to Oleander, again flashing his amicable smile. "Allow me, my dear." He offered her his hand.

Oleander blinked, stupefied, as she dumbly accepted his hand. No one had ever called her 'my dear' before. Yep. She'd definitely grow to like him. Standing, she smiled in spite of herself. For the first time in ages, she felt the earth beneath her bare feet.

Supported by Aziraphale's strong and loving arms, Crowley tilted his head. "This way." He steered himself and Aziraphale away, walking towards their destination. Oleander followed while her eyes wandered.

***

By the time they'd reached their terminus - an antique bookshop - Oleander's mind was thoroughly blown. She had no name for most of the things she'd seen. Not the wheeled machines, not the strange, bicycle-like things that people rode on, not the fashion, not the posters advertising what she assumed to be high-budget plays. It didn't help that she got more than a few lingering stares. People eyed her with varying degrees of curiousity, confusion, pity, and outright disgust. A group of girls kept whispering to each other, giggling as they watched her. Finally, Oleander had enough and sent a smattering of poison ivy after them. They'd have a rash for days, if not weeks.

Entering the cool brown shadows of the bookshop was a fine relief indeed. A flick of a switch made Oleander gasp, revealing more books than she'd ever seen in one place.

Crowley let out a great sigh as Aziraphale lay him on the couch. The demon spread his body out, limbs dangling at odd angles. He leaned his head back, eyes closing. Concern oozed from the angel like pus as he hovered there for a second, unsure of what to do. Then, he brightened. "Er, I'll make us all some tea!" Facing Oleander, he asked her, "What sort would you like, dear?"

Oleander hummed thoughtfully. Then, she ventured, "Do you have green?"

"Certainly!" Aziraphale replied, smiling nervously. "Cream? Sugar?"

Oleander, who hadn't tasted either of those things since her last time on Earth, shook her head. "No, thank you." Something in her cheered. Her first consumption on Earth.

The angel nodded. "Right, well, make yourself at home." With that he was off, disappearing in the small kitchen at the far end of the store. Oleander watched him go before turning her attention to the books themselves. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, filling every shelf and surface with leather spines and printed words. Lovingly, she reached out and traced a few. The paper, she found, was different from that of her journal. The way to make it had clearly changed. Fascination spread across her brain like a fungus, urging her to read the titles. She'd never heard of any of these authors, or their works. But now, she had all the time in the world to learn. A grin spread across her strong-jawed face.

A strange honk called her attention to the window. To the strange, new world beyond it. 

"You can go out, y'know." Oleander turned to find Crowley struggling to stay awake. "Go exploring, or what have you." He gestured to himself and the kitchen. "We'll be here."

Oleander hesitated. She truly wanted to go out, to see this human settlement. It was the largest she'd ever seen, by far, and was filled with things she knew nothing about. But fear held her back.

"Really." Crowley nodded. "Go." The insistence in his tone revealed his intention. His desire. He wanted her gone, if only for a little while.

Oleander's lips, already quite thin, diminished until her mouth looked like a cut. "Fine. I'll be back soon. We have much to discuss." With that, she slipped out the door and slammed it behind her. Crowley sighed in relief, eyes closing.

"Here we are!" Aziraphale materialized from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with tea and fresh scones. His smile dimmed, however, when he noticed that there was one person less than he'd prepared for. "Where is Oleander?"

"Out. Exploring. And hopefully getting as far away as possible." Crowley muttered.

"Oh, now that's harsh." The angel set the tray down, sitting on the couch's armrest (the only spot untouched by Crowley). "She helped us out, darling. Please remember that."

"Yeah, she did," the bitterness in Crowley's voice caught the angel's attention, "but it was only to help herself come here, on Earth. If I hadn't agreed to her little deal, she wouldn't have helped at all."

"What deal?" Aziraphale inquired.

Crowley looked at him with hollow, bloodshot eyes. "She'd help me out, and repair my body," he gestured to himself, "in return for me bringing her here, and teaching her how to live with humans."

Aziraphale's pale brows threatened to fly off his face. For a few seconds he was mute. Turned to the tea, where he poured himself a cup and did not hold back on the cream and sugar. Then, he took a deep gulp. Finally, he spoke. "Well...there are worse deals to make."

Crowley didn't reply at first. Aziraphale dared a glance and saw, to his horror, that tears were forming in his demon's snake-like eyes. "Oh, darling." He set down his cup and saucer. His hand found Crowley's, and squeezed tightly. The demon was silent for a couple more heartbeats before he said, "They tortured me, you know. Every. Single. Day. For three Hell years."

Aziraphale could hardly speak. "But it's only been three weeks here..." His words sounded so brittle, so pathetic.

"Time moves slower there, you know that." Crowley spoke flatly, even as the tears glided down his sunken cheeks. "The things they did to me...there was no end to their creativity. To their depravity. The only thing that kept me going was you." He looked up. Yellow met blue. "Only you."

Breaking down, Aziraphale held Crowley tight. The demon held on like a drowning man, squeezing his eyes shut as silent sobs racked his body.

***

Oleander didn't know how long she walked, or how many miles she covered. This confusing, yet endlessly fascinating city, beckoned her like a siren song. Everywhere she looked she saw something new and interesting, from the street performers to the giant signs to the machines to the stores selling...seemingly everything imaginable, it seemed. From food to clothes to shoes to entertainment. Oleander felt like a little kid in a festival, and was so caught up in her surroundings that she came to ignore the odd looks that kept coming her way.

The sky had started to darken when a voice suddenly called out to her. Unfamiliar, but warm. "Hey, beautiful!" She turned to see a man emerging from a tavern, a beer bottle in his hand and a grin on his lips. "You look lost. Need a lift?" For a second, Oleander thought that he might have meant someone else. Then, she remembered that the body she was in - which was still a little rusty from being in a closet for three hundred years - appeared to be a white, human female of about thirty. Last time she'd used this body, thirty had been considered almost old. And yet, during her walk, she'd seen women that same age in the arms of much older - and sometimes younger - partners. How times had changed.

That was when another realization struck Oleander: she had no idea how to navigate her way back to the bookshop. Aziraphale and Crowley's magic were too distant to track. And she certainly couldn't fly back. Even she knew that humans didn't take to flying beings very well. "Ummm..." She swallowed, knowing that this guy might not have the purest of intentions. "I don't...know how to tell you where to go."

"Ah, it's fine." The man's grin widened. He held up the strangest-looking keys that Oleander had ever seen. "I got Google Maps."

Oleander hadn't a clue what that meant, but decided to risk it anyway. She was in a new world, and was excited to experience it all. Besides, what was the worst this guy could do to her? She was immortal, and deadly. She felt herself nod. The man beamed. "Great!" He held on a hand. "Come on, then." Oleander moved towards him but didn't take his hand. She got a better look at him. He was young, maybe in his early thirties. Sandy-blond hair and an easy smile. His breath smelled of beer as he leaned closer, their noses almost touching. "My car's right this way, love." His arm was suddenly around her waist. Oleander didn't mind. She was curious. He guided her to a dark alley, far from the lights and the sounds of the bustling city. He pressed the keys, and there came a _beep-beep!_ Another strange machine waited for them in the alley, its surface sleek and turqoise. Oleander touched it, her claws clicking against the metal. "Like it?" The man asked. "It's brand-new."

"It's very...shiny." Oleander managed, triggering a laugh from the man. "Yeah, it is!" He opened the door and swept his arm inside. "After you, m'lady." Oleander blinked at him before sliding inside, greeted by the smell of leather. "Name's Gary, by the way."

"Oleander." Came the reply.

Gary peered at her. "What, like the flower?"

"Yes." 

Gary stared at her for another beat. Probably expecting her to laugh and give him a more common name. Then he said, "Neat!" He slammed the door shut and moved to the other side. A second later, he was in the seat next to hers, right where a strange wheel was. Oleander blinked at it, and all the glowing buttons in front of her. "What do these things do?"

"Ah, all sorts of things." Gary draped an arm around Oleander's seat. "It can play music, push the seats backward or forward, clean the windows...and turn up the heat." His fingers brushed the back of Oleander's neck, somehow making it through all that hair. She blinked, forming an idea as to what this man wanted. Okay. She could play along, as long he didn't push his luck. So far, his touches were light and delicate, like a butterfly's wings. His hand lowered to the side of her neck, then her clavicle. A bit more forceful now. Oleander felt her defenses beginning to rise. "Your skin is so soft." Gary whispered, his breath hot on her ear. "What do you use?"

"Calendula." Oleander replied, putting some distance between them. "And I think you should calm down. You're hardly an adolescent."

Gary blinked at her, momentarily speechless, before grinning at her once more. "Ah, you're playing hard to get? Nice." His hand traced her strong jaw. "I like 'em tough." The other rested on her knee, starting to crawl upward. He hadn't even asked if he could.

Oleander's defenses went up even more. "I'm warning you. Calm. Down."

"Oh, loosen up!" Gary punctuated his demand by suddenly pinning her body down with his, the two of them crashing backward along with the seat.

Anyone who'd happened to be in the alley, perhaps to toss out the garbage or to tie their shoe, would have seen the machine suddenly jolt as if alive. Then, they would have heard something that sounded like a knife being driven into a watermelon. A strangled cry. They would have seen, in the lights behind them, the windscreen suddenly go red. Not a second later, they would have witnessed Gary's body being forced through the glass, face down and throat torn out. His pants were lowered, exposing his boxers to the cold London night. He twitched once, twice, then stilled.

Oleander climbed out. Her mouth was ringed with fresh blood, which oozed down her neck. The front of her robes were streaked crimson. Hissing in anger, she glared at the corpse one last time before leaving the alley.

Fine. Forget fornication, however fun it sounded in principle. And screw Google Maps, whatever that was. She could find her own way back.


	4. Windflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell is reeling from Crowley and Oleander's escape. Lord Beelzebub consults the Dark Council, who decide to use Oleander's act of rebellion to their advantage. Meanwhile, on Earth, Oleander realizes that life among the humans will be much harder than she thought. Crowley tries to hide how much his time as Hell's prisoner has effected him. Aziraphale is there for both demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and hits! Please let me know what you think.

Crowley stared into the bathroom mirror, hating what he saw.

Hell had marked him, despite Oleander's skilled ministrations. Even the early light of dawn couldn't hide that. His face was skull-like, his ribs stuck out against his flesh, and his collarbones stuck out like letter openers. Despite Oleander's efforts, his body had become a tapestry of deep, puckered scars. His eyes were dark-rimmed and haunted; his sleepless night had not done him any favors, either. His hair was long and greasy.

Well, he could fix that, at least. Prove that he wasn't Hell's plaything anymore. With trembling hands, Crowley summoned a pair of small scissors from the drawer. With a pinch of magic, he enlarged them. Their cold weight in his hand was strangely reassuring. Slowly, carefully, the demon seized a fistful of copper-colored hair and raised it above his head. The scissors yawned wide, positioned in the center of the untamed locks. With a satisfying _snip_ , the curlicues loosened in his grip. It felt good, like weeding a garden. Purifying. Liberating. Taken by a sort of frenzy, Crowley began snipping almost as quickly as his hand could move, halving any chunk of hair that looked even remotely long. A crescent of slick ringlets formed around his bare feet, dirtying the white tiles. Soon, there was nothing left to cut and Crowley stood before the mirror, panting as though coming back from a run.

He now looked like a wannabe punk rocker, with his half-inch coils twisting in every wild direction, with no sense of symmetry or societal obedience. But it was new, which was saying something for someone who'd always been careful to update his appearance whenever the shifting eras demanded it. Crowley had worn his hair long and short, curled and straightened, gelled and unwashed. It had all depended on what the norm was. But this? This didn't correspond to any particular trend. It was just...different. A desperate severing of his time in that tiny cell.

 _"Look at you,"_ he could hear a certain Duke of Hell snarl, _"Not so pretty now, are you, Crowley?"_

"Shut up." Crowley covered his ears, head bowed. "Shut up, Hastur."

 _"You're ours."_ This time it was Beelzebub's monotone buzz infecting his eardrums. " _may have escaped us this time, but we'll get you again. That body isn't indestructible. All it would take is another car. Or a bullet you didn't dodge. Or..._ _ **poison.**_ "

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Crowley cried weakly. "Please..." He tried to control his breathing, to push these fears away. Behind a locked door, as far back into his subconscious as he could. They fought. Tried to shake his mind like an unopened birthday present, tried to turn his heart into a benumbed stone of ice-cold terror. But he fought twice as hard, and was left trembling.

A bath. He needed a bath. He hadn't bothered the night before, even though he'd thrown away the rags he'd barely been wearing. He'd spent the entire night curled up in his angel's embrace. Aziraphale had kissed and caressed Crowley, whispering sweet comforts in his ear. It had barely been enough to keep Crowley sane, and in the end, when his angel had dozed off, Crowley had assumed his snake form and literally slithered out of those loving arms. Aziraphale didn't sleep often; that was more Crowley's favorite indulgence. But the fight in Hell had worn him out, and he'd slept like a child. Crowley, on the other hand, had spent the rest of the night jumping at every sound. Trying to tell himself that they were safe. 

A bath would help with his jitters. It would be the first one he'd had in three weeks. 

Crowley twisted the knob and watched as steaming water sloshed into the tub, clouding the mirror and dampening the air. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat. It had always been cold in Hell, especially during his time in the cell. Part of their torture. Deprive him of warmth. Make him shiver all the way down to his bones. The memory of it was enough to make him sick, hunched over the sink. The mess he left took two demonic miracles to clean.

Shaking off the robe that his angel had lent him, Crowley sank into the tub. The hot water scalded his flesh, rendering it lobster-red. Just the way he liked it. Hissing in pleasure, Crowley turned the water off. He lay there, with the water up to his chin. Let the heat envelop him like an old friend. The rising steam tickled his face. Now better equipped to keep the horrors at bay, Crowley reached for his bar of soap. Rosemary and lemons. The moment he touched it, he knew that Aziraphale had used it in his absence. The idea touched him almost to tears, and made him lather himself much more slowly than he normally would have. Today, they would have the same scent.  
The water became clouded and gray from weeks of dust, filth, and dead skin cells. A small sprinkling of magic cleansed the water, but the image stayed with Crowley. He scrubbed harder, almost rubbing his skin raw. Grabbing the shampoo, he let it sink deep into the roots, even as stray drops stung his eyes. The hot water helped. He needed to brush Hell off him. Needed to be clean.

Crowley stayed in the water for much longer than he needed to, and he knew it. He didn't want to get out, not ever. He wanted to stay in the tub, miracling the water hot and clean with every cycle, and scrub away Hell until even his bones sparkled.   
But long, jagged shards of golden began to stream in through the small window. Cast themselves against the opposite wall. Glaring at them, and hearing the house awakening around him, Crowley reluctantly yanked out the plug. Loud, guttural gurgles filled his ears as he pulled himself out. Goose-bumps were already spreading across his body like the crust on a pie. Shivering with cold, and threatening to puke again, the demon wrapped a large towel around himself. Trapping the warmth. He stood there for a moment, still shaking. Trying to keep the terrors at bay.

A loud knock on the door nearly made him yelp. "Hey!" A female voice called. "Is anybody in there? I need to get ready!"

For the briefest of seconds, Crowley didn't know who it was. Then, he remembered with a scowl. "Give me a bloody minute, Poison Demon!"

"Crowley?" Oleander's voice softened. "Uh...sorry. Take your time."

Her response, far from quelling Crowley, only hit another raw nerve. He didn't need her bloody pity. "No problem!" He snarled. Toweling himself dry, and shaking his head like a dog, he yanked the door open. The difference in temperature made him feel a bit faint, but he refused to let it show. Oleander stood before him, the front of her robes bloody. Crowley's eyes widened at the sight, his mouth going dry. He forgot his own ghosts, his stomach sinking like a stone in a lake.  
Oleander gaped at him. "The Heaven did you do to your hair?"  
"Screw my hair." Crowley whispered. "What did you do?"  
Oleander blinked at him, then looked down at herself. "Oh!" She exclaimed, as though she'd forgotten all about the stains. "Oh, er..." She shrugged, offering him a half-smile. "Just some prick who tried to come onto me. But I put him in his place."

Crowley immediately knew what Oleander meant, and it made him want to scream. "Oh, for..." Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming in, strong and imposing as the summer sun.

The Poison Demon frowned. "What is it?"

But Crowley had no desire to have that conversation. Not now. He shoved past Oleander, marching down the hall. "Ask Aziraphale. He'll fill you in." He tossed the words over his bony shoulder like an empty soda can. The female demon simply stood there, eyes wide and brow furrowed.

***

Hell had never been in good shape, per say. But now? It was pitiful. If the angels had been privy to a gander, they'd have laughed about it for centuries. Stalks of hogweed choked every corner, their roots plunged in deep. The janitor imps had spent all night and all morning hacking away at the white-flowered plants and burning them in piles, but the work never seemed to end. The infirmary, too, had its hands full. The line to get in was longer than the Great Wall of China. Within the office itself, which was buckling from the moans of the blistered and blinded, saw the nurse-demons running around like frenetic wind-up toys. Not to mention the giant, gaping hole in the ceiling. Even with a team of demons armed to the teeth with miracle coupons and outdated building equiptment, it would take weeks to patch up that cut. 

Beelzebub sat in their throne, the furious buzzing above their head matching their stormy mood. The demons sensed their dark mood and wisely kept their distance, going about their work and giving the Prince a wide berth. They avoided asking questions and eye contact, too, as much as they could. They had all had a chance to learn that the Lord of Flies' unassuming appearance was a farce to both friend and foe. When something truly provoked them, be it a botched mission or an avoided divine War, Beelzebub was like Hellfire itself: wild and hot, burning until it had consumed everything in its path. These outbursts didn't happen often, but when they did, they were something to be feared. None of them envied the Poison Demon, wherever she was. 

Oleander. Beelzebub could hardly believe it. Sure, she had required discipline once, back in the 1730s, when she'd slaughtered an entire church filled with people during Sunday Mass. Filled it with a lethal fungus that had destroyed all who breathed it within minutes, in the bloodiest way possible. That had been the first, and only time Oleander had used that mushroom. Such behavior had deserved to be punished, and Beelzebub had made sure that it was. After that, the Poison Demon never had so much as a toe out of line.  
And now, she had betrayed them. Her people. Why? Had the traitor poisoned (ha!) Oleander's mind? Filled her head with unnatural thoughts about Earth? He'd certainly had plenty of time to corrupt her. Or maybe the seed of rebellion had always nestled within the Poison Demon, and all it had needed to take root was a chance. The angel had probably intervened, too. He and Crowley were a dangerous pair, clouding the minds of mortal and immortal alike. If they hadn't been invincible, Heaven and Hell would have eliminated them quite a while ago. 

In the end, Beelzebub decided that it did not matter whether Oleander had been manipulated or not. Traitors had to be ripped out by the root, swiftly and brutally. Crowley and his angel friend may have been immune to their races' weaknesses, but Oleander was not. She had to be dealt with, lest more follow her example. 

But ultimately, that decision was not Beelzebub's to make. It was the Dark Council's.

Speaking of which...

Beelzebub rose. All the demons in the arena froze, their eyes wide with terror. Scowling, the Prince snapped, "What are you all looking at?! Get back to work! What are you not being paid for?!" There was a nervous chorus of "Yes, Lord Beelzebub," as the demons obeyed, going back to yanking out hogweed and sweeping up debris. The Prince sauntered past them all, their feet knowing where to go. Normally, they'd brush against quite a few wandering devils. But this time, the crowd parted for them like water and oil. Beelzebub made it to the penultimate floor in record time. Normally, a demon - even one as high-ranking as the Lord of Flies - would only be granted entry if they had been summoned. But this was a matter that needed discussing.

The door, however, required payment. Beelzebub dragged their claw against their opposing wrist. Blood welled and dripped. Beelzebub slathered their hand in blood before pressing it firmly against the door. Pulling away, they left a crimson handprint. It glowed as brightly as a star before disappearing altogether, accepted by the Council.

There was a loud _clack_ , and the door squealed as it opened. Beelzebub walked through it, entering a chamber illuminated by candlelight. These were not warm flames like the ones on Earth. No, these were white and cold, turning the inky blackness into a dark gray. They shone down on the unholy seven members of the Dark Council, who sat on seven raised thrones made of yellowed bones. Beelzebub always felt a shiver run through their form whenever they laid eyes on their superiors. The Lord of the Flies held much sway in Hell, but the Dark Council answered only to Satan Himself, who almost never showed his face. The Dark Council had invented the Seven Deadly Sins that now haunted humanity, were in fact the incarnations of those sins. Their power was nearly absolute. Their word was law.

Bowing deeply, Beelzebub spoke. "My lordzzzzz."

Pride leaned forward in their seat. Like their siblings, and many other demons, Pride's appearance was not defined by binary constructs. They were not male or female, nor did they particularly lean towards one or the other. After all, the Seven Deadly Sins were not limited by gender. Nor was evil, for that matter. Pride sat perfectly straight, an elegant and confident figure with a porcelain face, an ironed pinstripe suit, and hair slicked back with pomade. With a hand heavy with golden and silver bands, they beckoned Beelzebub forth. 

Beelzebub obeyed, keeping their eyes lowered.

"Lord of the Flies, Prince of Hell," Pride spoke in a tone of voice that could be found on Earth, in the throats of the elite one percent, "with what matter have you come to us today? Our time is worth infinitely more than yours, after all."

"Yezzzz, my lordzzz, I know." Beelzebub replied, their tone low and respectful. "But I'm afraid thizz matter required a higher authority. You zzzeee, the traitor Crowley hazz ezzcaped uzz onzzze more."

"What?!" Wrath jerked in their throne, eyes hotter than bright red coals. Their claws dug into their throne's armrests, knuckles going white. "How can you lot be so incompetent?! He didn't even have a body anymore! How could he evade your grasp?!" Their voice was a firework, bright and loud.

"It...it wazz hizzz jailor, my lordzzz." Beelzebub answered, sweat forming patches under their arms and upon their back. "Oleander, the Poizzzzon Demon."

Gluttony chomped down on a greasy burger. They were little more than a giant blob of flesh, with rolls and flab oozing out of their stained clothes. Frowning at the name, they tilted their head. "Who?" The question was forced out through mouthfuls of lettuce and beef.

"Zzzhe is the architect of every poizzzonous plant, herb, and fruit on Earth, my lordzzz." Beelzebub explained. "Zzzhe izz also our jailor, when we need one."

"Ah, poison. A handy tool for the ambitious and the adventurous." Greed grinned in their seat, no doubt recalling every person who had ever used poison to get rid of pesky obstacles between them and their goals. A brother who wants to be king. A man who wants his wife's wealth. A son who wants the key to his father's chest full of gold. Greed was proud of them the same way a father is proud of their children...though that love never did them any good once it was their time to die. Greed wore a suit made from every bill on Earth, from the dollar to the pound to the euro. Their hair was braided with gold, and their neck was heavy with precious gemstones. Nibbling pensively on an emerald ring, Greed said, "So. Oleander betrayed us. Do you know where she and the traitor Crowley are?"

"Earth, my lordzzz." Beelzebub answered. "Probably London. Crowley hazzz been fond of that insignificant planet for zzenturies now. Gone native. And hizzz angel friend aided their escape." Pausing, they added, "We're zztill cleaning up their mezz."

"Uh?" Sloth suddenly woke up, eyes bleary and crusted with centuries' worth of sleep. They were dressed in a way that made it clear that they had only put something on for the sake of modesty. Their hair was unkempt, and their body showed signs of neglect: skinny and pale, with ingrown hairs and unwashed skin. "What's happening?"

"Lucky you, for sleeping at a time like this." Envy scowled at their fellow Council member. "Go back to sleep, Sloth. That's what you're good at!"

"Okay, fair enough." Sloth drifted off again, their cheek nestled in their palm. "If there's no need of me..." Within seconds they were snoring. 

Rolling their eyes, Envy crossed their arms and peered down at Beelzebub. "Well, then. For six thousand years, not a hitch. And now, in the span of a year, two demons take off like a lovesick pair! With an angel, no less!" They turned to their fellow Council Members. "I envy them and their naive thoughts that they can get away with it!"

"Thoughts that must be smothered." Wrath snarled. Shaking their fist, they declared, "They must both be brought back there, and destroyed by any means necessary! Oleander by holy water and Crowley...well, we'll think of something!"

"No!" Greed snapped, grinning. "I have a better idea. One with greater benefits to reap."

Everyone watched the demon, eyes wide. Even Beelzebub forgot their place.

Greed leaned back, chuckling. "Isn't it obvious? We can still have our War! All we have to do is leave the two traitors alone!" They held up a hand to counter the onslaught of shouts. "Let me explain: angels and demons are able to sense each other especially if they find themselves in the same area. So, sooner or later, the Poison Demon's presence will be noticed by..." They paused, shuddering, "...the Opposition."

Everyone else in the chamber spat and swore at the mention. 

"So, here's the good part!" Greed rubbed their hands together. "The Opposition will sense that there are two demons on Earth instead of one, and they will begin to panic. They will think that we're making a move, perhaps gathering on Earth to discuss tactics, or something like that. Thus, they'll make a move. Something, anything, most likely kidnap either or both of the traitors. We'll use the opportunity as an excuse to strike." They leaned back, satisfied. "And we'll be able to claim that they sparked the flame that burned everything down, since technically they made the first move while we did nothing."

"And in the meantime, we'll be getting our forces ready." Envy added, the pieces coming together in their mind. "We'll then be able to hit them, hard, without a lick of warning."

"Yes!" Wrath jumped to their feet, eyes glowing. "Have a million caches of Hellfire prepared! Every suit of armor must be reinforced, every sword sharpened and cursed twice! This time, our revolution shan't fail!"

Beezlebub watched the Dark Council flicker with excitement, talking over each other and shouting out details to be added. They could very well leave and nobody would notice. But Beelzebub dared to delay their departure, transfixed by what they were witnessing.

The small part of their brain that wasn't taken by devotion, excitement, and anticipation marveled at the irony. How would the traitors feel, knowing that their actions had officially doomed the Earth that they (retch) loved so much?

***

Oleander, freshly bathed and swaddled in Aziraphale's clothes (Crowley's were far too tight for her), slowly descended the steps. Trying not to feel like an intruder along the way. She could hear the angel busying himself in the kitchen, and could smell the results. It made her stomach growl like a small but persistent lion. She indulged in food every once in a while, but it was mostly crafted from her own herbs and plants, usually as a drink or a stew. During her last time on Earth, she'd tasted bread but had found it too hard for her liking. Whatever the angel was preparing was a big step up, if the sweet and rich scents were anything to go by.

At last, she made it on the last step. The bookshop looked even nicer in the morning, with golden rays pouring into every window. Carved from stone and polished wood, and decorated with small statues, vases, and Persian carpets, the place was a marvel to behold. The books, of course, were the best part. The walls themselves seemed to serve no other purpose but to hold as many of them as possible, and each shelf looked ready to burst. Small tables and desks were artfully stacked as well, and more were on display before the windows. It was a well-loved place, cared for and lived in. Even though it would not be for very long, Oleander knew that she would like it here. 

"Oh! Good morning, Oleander!" A cheery voice snapped her out of her reverie. Turning, she saw Aziraphale with three plates in his hands. She gave him a clumsy curtsey. "Good morning." After a pause, she held her claws out. "Please. Allow me."  
"Thank you, dear." Aziraphale got over his surprise fairly quickly as he gave her the dishes. Pointing, he said, "The table's right there." Seeing it right in front of the kitchen, a worn and wobbly thing, Oleander nodded. She set the three plates. As she'd expected, the table wobbled. Oleander contemplated, her claws clicking as they drummed the wooden surface, before snapping her fingers. Before Aziraphale's widening eyes, thin, leafy stems crept out from beneath the floorboards and began to wind around the table. Their leaves grew as they moved, as did their flowers. Tiny, jasmine-like blossoms sprouted into being. Slithering along like white-dotted green snakes, the plants wrapped themselves around the table's legs and side stretchers, effectively securing it to the floor. Her work done, Oleander offered Aziraphale a sheepish smile. "Seems a bit better than putting a book under one of the legs."

"Oh, my dear, that's wonderful!" Aziraphale exclaimed, his entire form beaming with joy. Closing the distance between them, he peered down at Oleander's handiwork. "But you'll have to forgive me, biology has never been my forte. What plant is this?"

" _Anemone nemorosa_. Also known as windflower." Oleander's lips quirked into a smile. "I came up with them one day in some artisto or another's garden. Exotic jasmines had just been planted there, and I admit I copied most of their design." Her face grew more serious. "But it causes severe skin and gastrointestinal irritation, as well as nausea, vomiting, burning in the mouth and throat, and hematemesis."

"Mm, yummy." A third voice had both heads turning. Crowley settled down the stairs, sunglasses on his nose and hands in his pockets. He noticed Oleander wearing Aziraphale's clothes (a cream-colored jumper that went well past her waist and caramel-colored trousers) and wrinkled his nose. "I hope you didn't put that rubbish in our food."

Oleander's face grew hot. "It's not rubbish. It's my work. Besides, windflower can and has been used for medicinal purposes."

"And the Ancient Roman highborn ladies used boar's blood to wax their legs. Doesn't make it any less gross." Crowley casually replied.

Oleander's eyes narrowed. Aziraphale quickly stepped between them. "Now, now, my dears." His plump hand settled on Oleander's shoulder, anchoring her there. Looking from his lover to his guest, the angel gave a nervous-edged smile. "Why don't we all settle down for breakfast, hmm? Then we can plan the rest of the day."

"Sounds good, angel." Sauntering across the room, Crowley planted a loving kiss on Aziraphale's lips. The angel closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss. He ran a hand through Crowley's copper-colored hair, which looked even wilder and more unkempt now that it was dry. When they pulled away, the angel gave his lover a tender smile. "Your hair looks...nice."

Crowley winced. "It's shite."

"No, no!" Aziraphale insisted. "It's...unique. Interesting. I like it, really!" He kissed the tip of Crowley's pointed nose for emphasis.

Blushing slightly, Crowley said, "I don't believe you, but that's okay. I'll get the coffee and the juice." The way he said it so calmly, as though the last three weeks had never happened, made Aziraphale smile. His eyes glowing with love, he gave Crowley's sunken cheek a gentle stroke. "Of course, dear." The demon and the angel disappeared in the kitchen, with Oleander not far behind. She had never been in a kitchen before, aside from her makeshift one back in the day. And that had consisted of a flat stone and a series of wooden tools to make potions and powders with. In the middle of the forest, to boot. A far cry from the small but cozy room that Oleander found herself in. The walls were the color of butter, and a small chandelier of colorful glass hung above their heads. The cupboards were filled with everything from spices to flour to cans. A strange contraption had four small black circles on it, which appeared capable of spitting fire. There was also a series of interesting, shiny gadgets that Oleander could not wait to use.  
One of them popped, making her jump.  
Noticing her reaction, Crowley gave her a dry smirk. "Guess they didn't have toasters last time you were here, eh?"

Oleander blinked at him, then at the object. Indeed, there were two slices of perfect, golden-brown slices of toast within it. "Ingenious," she breathed. Reaching in, she claimed one slice of toast and held it up for inspection. "Aziraphale, I must congratulate you. This is the most perfect-looking bread I've ever seen!"

"Thank you, Oleander." Aziraphale smiled warmly at her. "But I'm afraid I can't take the credit. I bought it at the supermarket."

Oleander frowned. "What's a supermarket?"

"It's where humans do their hunting, nowadays." Crowley carried two pitchers; one filled with orange juice, the other, coffee. He made his way to the table and placed them in its center.

Oleander tried to imagine some sort of rich hunting ground where street vendors sold their goods. Goods that were as perfect as the slice of toast in her claw. She found it difficult. Shaking it off, she asked, "Anything I can do?"

"Oh," Aziraphale carried a plate stacked high with large, thick pancakes, "could you kindly bring the jam and butter? They're in the fridge." He jerked his chin at the verticle, metal box in the corner. Oleander, finding that it had a door, gave it a yank. Cool air billowed in her face, leaving her flabbergasted. "Food can be preserved in here! That's amazing!" Her eyes took in the contents, unable to contain her amazement. At last, she found Aziraphale's requested items and brought them to the table. Crowley and Aziraphale were already seated, so she joined in. The angel had already put three pancakes on Crowley's plate and wasted no time putting the same amount before Oleander. This small act of consideration made her bloom, like a tiny flower on a dewy morning. "By the way, I'm sorry I took these." She pointed to her jumper. "But my robes were bloody."

Aziraphale choked on his orange juice, and Oleander immediately sensed that she'd said something wrong. Crowley sighed into his cup of coffee, but otherwise held his tongue. The angel looked at her with something akin to fear, and it made Oleander want to sink beneath the floorboards. She could feel her face beginning to crumple, and her confusion made it worse. "What...did I do something wrong?"

"Well, I, er..." Aziraphale stumbled over his words, avoiding eye contact. He gulped down his orange juice in no time flat, then took a huge bite out of his pancake. Chewed quickly, intensely, like he was afraid that doing otherwise would give him cramps. At last, he swallowed audibly and faced Oleander again. "Would you mind telling us why they were bloody, my dear?"

Oleander hugged herself, biting the inside of her cheek. "Well..."

Ten minutes later, her story had been told. Crowley had finished his second cup of black coffee at that point, though his pancakes still sat untouched on his plate. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had gobbled down four as he'd listened. He'd seemed almost desperate as he'd eaten, like a child clutching a teddy bear during a storm. Oleander nervously nibbled on her pancake, and somehow, its fluffy, cake-like taste made her feel worse. Unworthy. She rubbed her claws up and down her arms as if cold. "Did I...do something wrong? I mean, in Hell, that's what you do. Someone threatens you, you defend yourself."

"It's true." Crowley spoke up for the first time since they'd seated themselves. "In Hell, it's perfectly within your rights. Even if someone ranked above you tries anything, you're allowed to fight back. I've bitten off a few hands in my day, too."

"Yes, well..." Aziraphale looked away for a second, chewing his bottom lip. When he looked at Oleander again, he was more...distant, but curious. Like she was an abstract painting that he couldn't quite make out. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and took her claw. The warm softness encasing her claw left her speechless. "Oleander..." Aziraphale began, his voice gentle, "I...I understand your reasoning, but I'm afraid that's not quite how it works here on Earth. Of course, what that man tried to do to you was wrong. But on Earth, reacting so strongly could put you in trouble. The justice system that humans created is imperfect, even broken by many standards. But it's the one that they have, and I'm afraid that in the law's eyes, what you did is enough to send you to prison."

Oleander's stomach twisted into a tight, nauseating knot. "Prison? Like...a cage, for people?"

"The very same." Aziraphale nodded. "I...we'll teach you human laws, so that you can avoid blunders like this in the future." He held onto her claw. "But for what it's worth, I forgive you."

Oleander's throat tightened so much that she could barely breathe. She'd spent six thousand years thinking that angels were brainwashed, overpowered snobs who thought themselves better than literally everybody else because they, supposedly, were God's best work. The stories she'd heard her fellow demons tell about their run-ins with their foes had not helped matters, either. There was the Archangel Gabriel, who nonchalantly told a shocked virgin that she had been 'chosen' to be the incubator of humanity's savior, with her having a say in none of it. There was Sandalphon, who had gleefully gone about turning people into pillars of salt during the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Then there was Michael, who had been the one to land the finishing blow on their King, Satan.  
And yet, this angel was holding her claw and forgiving her, so freely giving her something that should have been forbidden to demons. He didn't see her as the enemy, or as a monster, or even a bad person. He understood her position and had refrained from judging her. It was very easy to see how Crowley could fall in love with someone like this.

Would Oleander ever find someone like that? Someone who would know her inside out and love her anyway? Maybe even someone with the same infinite lifespan as her? Probably not.

Swallowing down her emotion like an uncooked brussel sprout, and blinking back the tears, Oleander squeezed Aziraphale's hand. "I...I'm sorry I broke humans' law. I had no idea." She paused. "This is going to sound bad, but...I'm not sorry he's dead, though." She withered. "Yeah. It sounds pretty bad."

"Eh, you're damned. Just like me." Crowley shrugged. "A few politically-incorrect comments are small potatoes for those like us." He scratched his jaw. "What I want to know is, how are we going to clean up this mess?"

"Er, well..." Aziraphale considered, "eventually, if no one is found guilty, then the murder will be sent off to the cold case department. So, as long as the police have no one to suspect, they will eventually put this case aside in favor of a more urgent one." He pressed his lips together. "I'll make a small miracle, make sure no one gets tried for the murder."

Oleander dropped her head. "Blending in with the humans is going to be a lot harder than I thought."

Crowley scoffed. "That's putting it lightly."

Aziraphale squeezed Oleander's claw before letting go. "Well, there's not much else we can do about it." His eyes happened to land on Crowley's untouched plate. "Love? You haven't eaten anything."

Crowley shook his head. "I don't need to eat."

Oleander winced. She remembered all too well the platter she'd been assigned to give Crowley twice a day, every day. It had been less to keep their new plaything's strength up and more to torment him even more. The food had been rotten, disgusting even by demon standards. The fruit would always be black and sunken, rotting in its own juices. The meat would be reeking and gray, with maggots crawling all over it. The bread would be moldy and stale enough to break a tooth. "And if he doesn't eat every bit of it," she'd been told, "force it down his throat!" But just because she'd seen him as her ticket out of Hell didn't mean she'd had it in her to cause him even more suffering. So instead, she'd used her power to make it a bit more palatable. A few cayenne peppers here, a handful of basil there. More often than not, Crowley had vomited it all back up again.  
No wonder the idea of eating repelled him.

"Yes, you do need to eat." The angel's tone was a little sharp. He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in regret, before trying again. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he took Crowley's hand in his, "but you need to eat. You look haggard. Please. For me?" He was trying to keep it together, Oleander could tell. But he was desperate. 

The two watched each other for a long moment. Then, at last, Crowley sighed. A hand slid underneath his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Fine. I'll eat something." Then, as if to prove the validity of his words, he sliced his pancake into thirds and stuffed one portion into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed as though he'd learned the procedure by reading about it in a book.

Aziraphale visibly relaxed at the display. "That's all I ask." Without letting go of his demon's hand, he turned to Oleander. "If you like, dear, I can give you some money so that you may buy some clothes...and whatever else you might like, of course." He added with a smile.

Oleander tilted her head at him. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know." Aziraphale contemplated. "What sort of things do you enjoy? Games, activities, and the like?"

Oleander shrugged. "I like growing plants, obviously. Inventing new ones. I like making remedies, brews, and the like."

Aziraphale deflated slightly. "Well, I meant something beyond your affinity to plants."

Now it was Oleander's turn to wilt. "I...don't know." The confession made her feel pathetic. She had no real identity beyond her status as the Poison Demon, or a member of Hell. Unlike the two supernatural entities before her, she didn't know what she liked and didn't like. The realization brought her close to tears. Once again, Aziraphale tried to offer her comfort. "Well, no harm in that! When Crowley and I first arrived on Earth, we did not have any hobbies. Did we, love?"

Crowley shrugged. "Unless you count napping as a hobby."

"Exactly!" Aziraphale patted Oleander's shoulder. "Don't fret over it, dear. You'll develop interests, too, over time. But in the meantime..." He reached into his waistcoat and offered her his wallet. "Go on, buy whatever clothes you like."

Oleander accepted the wallet, staring down at it as though it were made of pure gold. Then, she reverted her gaze to Aziraphale, who nodded encouragingly. "Really, it's okay! I can simply miracle money into my account. It's no trouble, truly."

The Poison Demon stared at him for another minute before throwing her arms around his neck. She felt the angel stiffen like drying clay in her arms, but she held on anyway. Their magic brushed against each other, unfamiliar but amicable. Oleander felt Aziraphale's hand hesitantly pat her between the shoulder blades, as though he feared catching fire if he touched her any more than that. She chuckled, and imagined what everyone back at home would think if they could see her now. Scandalous! Blasphemy!  
Then, she caught herself.  
'Home'.  
Hell was just Hell now.  
This was her home now. It just didn't feel like it yet.

Carefully hiding her emotions behind a pleasant facial expression, Oleander pulled back. "Thanks. I'll be back soon." Making a mental note to mark the path behind her, she waved at them as she exited the bookshop. Aziraphale waved back. Crowley gave a half-hearted reply.

It wasn't until she was outside, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of modern London, that Oleander hit her first proverbial speed-bump. She looked around, picked a random human, and tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me," she asked, ignoring his annoyed expression, "can you point me towards the nearest clothing store, please?"

***

Aziraphale and Crowley finished their breakfast in silence. The air between them was mostly tranquil, fueled by their mutual relief to be together again. But even as they shared kisses and loving touches at the table, they sensed their issues below the surface. Crowley's marriage proposal. Aziraphale's answer. Crowley's imprisonment. They all lay below the surface, like bodies in a graveyard. The earth was still loose, ready to be dug up again. But neither was ready to pick up the shovel. Not now, when the wounds were too fresh. They both wanted to walk together, feign normality, if only for a little while, and tiptoe around the offending plots of soil.

That was why, when Crowley could only manage a third of one pancake and three cups of black coffee, Aziraphale didn't push it. Instead, he reached out and stroked his demon's cheek. Rewarding him for his effort, and assuring him that it was good enough. It was also why, on the other side of the table, Crowley guarded himself. His face, his movements. His thoughts. Tried to push the shadows away, telling himself that he was just fine, that all these things would just go away, and that everything would go back to normal. But in the meantime, he was **fine**.  
Smiling, Aziraphale cleared the table. Crowley was about to do the same when, against all odds, a yawn stretched his jaw to the breaking point. He blinked at the phenomenon, and cursed under his breath. Three cups of black coffee, all for naught. He may as well have been drinking boiled water!  
"You sound tired, love." The angel observed from the kitchen, where he transferred the leftover pancakes into a Tupperware container. As he placed it into the fridge, he asked, "Why don't you go upstairs and rest? It would do you a world of good."

"Me? Sleep?" Crowley glanced at his watch. "At ten in the morning? What am I, a vampire?"

"You certainly have the fashion sense of one." Aziraphale japed. Then, fearing even such an innocent joke could hurt Crowley's feelings, the angel added, "I of course love how you dress, dearest."

Crowley held up a hand. "S'okay, angel." He let it drop. "And...you know what? Why not? I've got some z's to catch anyway." He blew his lover a kiss before turning on his heel. "Have fun, angel." His voice grew fainter as he ascended to the bedroom. "And don't worry about being quiet; you know I'm a deep sleeper."

That was the understatement of the millennia. Crowley had once slept for an entire century. More recently, Aziraphale had once taken a cup of hot cocoa to bed with him while Crowley slept like a stone. As he'd gotten back into bed, a good book tucked under his soft arm, the angel had accidentally spilled some of the very hot cocoa onto his lover's shoulder. The angel had yelped and fretted, but Crowley hadn't even stirred. Aziraphale had, of course, miracled away the burn.

Chuckling to himself, Aziraphale blew his lover a kiss in return. "Alright, dear. Just call me if you need anything."

Crowley shot him a thumbs-up right before disappearing. Aziraphale looked after him for a minute, his heart filled with conflicting emotions - love, relief, concern, anxiety - before busying himself. First, he washed the dishes and set them to dry. Then, he wiped down the table. As he did, he looked down at the windflower stems steadying the legs, and he found himself smiling. He still hardly knew Oleander, but he had to admit that he liked her quite a bit. He was a bit afraid of her too, of course, but not enough to want to shoo her away. Over his time spent on Earth, Aziraphale had occasionally bumped into other demons besides Crowley, and they had all been hostile, foul-mouthed brutes who had been itching for a fight. Oleander, on the other hand, just seemed to want to be free. She had a lot to learn, and her lack of remorse over killing that man had disturbed Aziraphale; it also worried him that she might behave like this again in the future. But Oleander did seem to want to learn, to blend in, to live among humans.  
And she had kept Crowley alive during his return to Hell. Even if it had been in self-interest, that alone compelled Aziraphale to give her a chance.

The table cleaned, Aziraphale got to work opening the bookshop for the day. He flipped the sign, got behind his mahogany desk, and opened the three-inch-thick Russian novel he was working through. Settling into a comfortable position, Aziraphale dove mind-first into the story, soon losing himself to the cast of colorful characters and intriguing themes. He devoured one chapter of another, eager to watch the pieces fall into place. Every so often, a customer's arrival forced him to set the book down and offer his aid. Of course, the customer left without having bought everything.  
With the first one of the day, Aziraphale had chased the customer off by offering him every single edition except for the one requested. Aziraphale felt both guilty and somewhat amused to watch the client's paitence crumble, to see his face going red and to hear his tone growing sharper.   
The next one had left after Aziraphale had cast a weak illusion on the book, making it appear moldy and damp.  
The third all but ran out when Aziraphale miracled some rats behind the nearest bookshelves, making their squeaks especially loud to be heard over the London traffic. Then, once the client had run as though pursued by a flesh-eating ghoul, Aziraphale had sent the rats back to their place of origin, along with a few blocks of cheese for their trouble.

After that, it seemed, there would be no more fuss, and no more scenes.

A relieved Aziraphale had just gotten hold of his Russian novel again when a blood-curdling scream tore through the air like a knife through cloth. For a split second, the angel thought someone was being murdered.

Then, he recognized the voice.

Crowley.

In an instant Aziraphale was there in the darkened room, rushing to the bed where his lover thrashed. He wriggled like a worm on a hook, screaming as though he were being flayed alive. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his back was arched to the breaking point. And the screams were the stuff of nightmares.

Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's shoulders. Tried not to think about how bony they were, how fragile. He shook his lover as hard as he dared, desperate to free him without harming him. "Crowley? Please wake up! Crowley! Crowley!" He reached out to him with his magic as well as his words. It curled around Crowley's convulsing body, as sweet as honey and as soft as a bird's feathers. Aziraphale continued to hold the demon, run his fingers through his hair, cup his face.  
Slowly, the screams turned to whimpers. Which, in turn, faded.

With a jolt, Crowley's eyes flew open. Almost glowing in the dimness. Blinking into focus, they landed on Aziraphale, and slowly began to fill with tears. "Angel..." He forced that word out through ragged pants.

Aziraphale smiled through his own tears, still cupping Crowley's cheek. "Yes, darling. It's me. You're home."

That seemed to calm Crowley, whose breathing began to slow.

Aziraphale said it again. "You're home."

Crowley stared at him through his tears, his expression stabbing Aziraphale more effectively than a well-placed dagger. "I...I'm sorry, I...I don't know what happened."

"You had a nightmare." Aziraphale pressed his lips against Crowley's sweating forehead. A blessing. "But it's alright. You're safe." To prove his point, he lay down beside Crowley. His hand found his lover's, and their fingers threaded together. Crowley didn't respond, but he raised his free hand and wiped the tears from his face. 

They lay there for a while, facing one another. Their hands joining them, in the middle, like two trees with intersecting branches. Their eyes, too, formed a bridge between them. Aziraphale gazed at his lover, gently stroking his hair to calm them both. Crowley clung to his angel's hand like a lifeline, and never broke eye contact. But deep down, he felt ready to break. Like a wine glass on the edge of a high table. He'd been so determined to appear strong, well put-together. More than anything, he wanted to put those three horrid weeks behind him and move on. Be with his angel, and enjoy the freedom they had so thoroughly earned. But Hell still had its claws in him. Ready to make him bleed the moment his defences were lowered. And with each new laceration, he grew a little weaker.

Unaware of Crowley's thoughts, but possessing a pretty good idea as to the nature of said thoughts, Aziraphale brought their hands to his face. Kissed the back of Crowley's hand. The skin there was cool, almost cold, and dry. "You should try to sleep again, dear."

Crowley went slightly rigid. "Don't want to."

"You need to rest." Aziraphale stroked Crowley's cheek. "I'll stay here with you if you want."

Crowley's eyes widened. "You will?"

"Of course." Aziraphale was shocked that his demon could even ask such a question. "You are my best friend and lover, and I will be here for you through the thick and thin." Crowley's lower lip trembled, but he gave no reply. The angel opened his arms. "Come."

Crowley didn't need telling twice. He pulled the angel as close to him as physics would allow. He snuggled into Aziraphale's warm, soft chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. Within minutes he was fast asleep, his limbs effectively trapping the angel in a barnacle-like embrace. Realizing that he would not be going anywhere for the foreseeable future, the angel miracled the shop's sign from 'open' to 'closed'. He then closed his eyes, his cheek resting on Crowley's soft hair.


	5. Meadow Saffron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During her shopping trip, Oleander learns more about modern attire, and in return gives a group of teenagers a lesson in humility. Aziraphale tries to convince Crowley that, perhaps, therapy might be the key to conquering his trauma. Crowley staunchly refuses, convinced that he can work it out by himself. Come evening, the three immortals go out to eat and dance. But when an angel and two demons get on the dancefloor, and one of those demons has only been on Earth for a day, things are never that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the hits and kudos, they keep the chapters coming! Please comment as well!

Oleander felt like a drinker drowning in fine wine: overwhelmed, more than a little scared, but satisfied in an incredibly perverse way. 

The last time she'd been on Earth, she worn garments that had been hand-spun for her by her pupils. One day, when they had been expected to meet her in the forest for their botany lessons, the women had held up robes made from the same material as their comely, modest dresses. Oleander, who had neither asked nor expected such a gift, had been so moved that she'd never taken them off afterward; the clothes had rotted away with time, long after their weavers died screaming. Only then had Oleander changed into something else. 

Now, it seemed that one could have any sort of clothing they wanted. Oleander ran her fingertips over a dozen different types of fabric, trying to commit their names to memory. Polyester. Chiffon. Rayon. Canvas. Cashmere. Organza. Muslin. Her eyes wandered, taking in clothes of every type, with all the colors of the peacock's feather. She hardly knew where to look, what to touch, and what to try on first. Oleander soon learned what a price tag once, and gawked at some of the numbers she saw printed there. For a moment she considered miracling the price in half, but ultimately decided against it: she wanted to live among the humans, and that meant using their ways to solve problems. Or indeed, avoid them altogether. Not wanting to spend more money than necessary, no matter what Aziraphale had said, Oleander soon found herself in the discount section along with single mothers, aspiring artists, and college students. But unlike these humans, who breezed through rows of shorts, pants, and shirts the same way cows graze on fields, the Poison Demon found herself at a loss. She found many items that interested her, but they were tagged with amalgams of strange letters and numbers. XS? S? M? 33? 48? Was there some sort of manual she was supposed to be using for this?  
Stranger still were the odd implements hanging on metal bars. They were cups made of cloth of different sizes, with straps keeping them together. Oleander picked one at random, blinked, and put in on her head. Spotting a mirror from the corner of her eye, she consulted it. The strange cups looked like very round, flat animal ears, but the straps fell in her eyes. How on Earth was she expected to put it on? As she was trying to figure it out, a strange noise got her head turning. A group of teenagers were huddled together, laughing and pointing at her. The one in front was aiming some sort of small rectangle at her, grinning into it with almost insane amusement. For a moment, they reminded Oleander of her fellow demons back home.

 _Hell isn't your home anymore!_ She reminded herself, harshly. _**This**_ _is your home now. And as such..._

She began to move towards the teenagers, who were summoning more of their little rectangles. They only seemed to cackle harder. This, in turn, made her blood boil hotter.

"She's wearing a bra as a hat!" One girl shrieked with laughter. "What a retard!"

"I bet she uses tampons for lipstick!" Another girl reached into her purse, extracted a strange lump of cloth, and threw it at Oleander. It bounced off her chest and landed on the floor, making the teeangers roar with laughter. At this point, Oleander had ground her teeth into stumps from clenching them so hard.

"Yeah," a boy sneered, "this is gonna get millions of hits on Instagram!" Looking at Oleander, who was now standing right in front of them, he grinned at her in a way that definitely reminded her of her former comrades. "Hey, bitch, were you born dense or did you have to work at it?"

Without the slightest hesitation, Oleander reached into her pocket and whipped out a fistful of lavender powder. She blew it all in their faces. Watched in delight as they coughed and hacked, rubbing their eyes and putting their rectangles away. The girl closest to her gave her an ugly frown. "What the hell was -" She suddenly went rigid, her eyes blown wide, as strange noises began to emit from within her short-shorts. Oleander smirked, removing the 'bra', whatever it was, from her head. "Meadow saffron. Don't worry, I didn't give you a lethal dose. You won't get kidney failure, or hypovolemic shock, no sir." Stepping back, Oleander's smirk widened. "I just gave you all enough to -" She was interrupted by a thunderous belch echoing through the store, loud enough to make more than a few people twist around in alarm. The girl, the guilty party, turned bright red as she doubled over, clutching her abdomen. "No," she moaned, "no, no, no..." But it was too late. With another loud burp, she began to projectile what looked like lumpy strw onto the floor. She wasn't alone. All of her companions hunched over, coating the floor in foul substances. A few of them began to tremble, cold sweats breaking out across their faces; a sure sign of the approaching fever. But it wouldn't kill them; simply confine them to bed for the rest of the day. Not bad, given that poisoning from meadow saffron usually took six to eight days.

Now thoroughly satisfied with her handiwork, Oleander waved her claw over their heads. The magic spread, filling the entire store. Now, if they would be questioned, none of the humans would be able to identify the cause of the teenagers' sickness. It was only out of pure luck that her little display of power had taken place in one of the security system's few blind spots. "Mock me again," she told the nearest boy, whose front was sticky with vomit, "and next time I'll give you respiratory failure." With that, Oleander turned on her heel and went back to selecting clothes. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Crowley and Aziraphale would approve of this. After all, she hadn't killed anyone this time. She'd simply done those brats' parents jobs for them and taught those kids some manners.  
As the moaning, miserable adolescents were sheperded out of the shop, Oleander went back to searching. It took half an hour and quite a bit of asking around, but she finally made a selection: several comfortable things called 'jeans', according to the tag, a few dresses from the maternity section, a handful of shirts that, individually, could be used as sails, and a few skirts that would drag along the floor when worn. Following an employee's advice, Oleander tried all of the clothes before adding them to the pile. Doing a bit of math in her head, she found that the total would amount to less than fifty pounds, and the thought made her smile with relief. Aziraphale had been so accomodating towards her, so kind; she didn't want to repay that kindness by throwing his miracled money out the window. 

Before she went to where the employee had pointed at, the 'cashier', she turned back to the fabric cups. The 'bras'. Tugging at a nearby woman's sleeve, she held it up. "Excuse me, madame, but what is a bra?"

The woman looked to be the same apparant age as Oleander, mayhaps a bit older. Silver hairs were beginning to weave themselves in an otherwise marigold mane. Beneath her flowery top, her belly was firm and round. When she met Oleander's eyes and realized that she was not joking, she looked at her with something akin to pity. "Oh, well, it's for us. For our breasts." She examined Oleander's chest, which was well-hidden beneath Aziraphale's jumper. "You look about an F cup." Taking Oleander's arm, she guided her to the appropriate cup sizes. The Poison Demon blinked at them, contemplating, before turning to the woman again. "But...don't we use corsets?"

The woman laughed, but when she again realized that it wasn't a jape, she softened. "Er, well, yes, some Goth girls wear them, but mostly we use bras now." She smiled. "Much more liberating, I find."

Oleander looked down at herself, saw what the woman could not, and grinned from ear to ear. "Then I'll buy seven: one for every day of the week. And look!" She exclaimed, pointing at a sign. "There's a discount: two for the price of one!" She whistled, shaking her head in amazement.

The woman chuckled, placing a hand on her belly. "Well, I'm glad I was able to help." She suddenly gave a small jolt, the echo of a wince upon her face.

"What's wrong?" Oleander was already searching her pockets for a painkiller. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes." The woman gave Oleander a reassuring smile. "It's just little Jason; he has the legs of a kangaroo, I swear." She patted her engorged stomach and, almost as an afterthought, asked, "Would you like to feel him?"

Oleander froze. Eyes wide, staring first at the woman's face, then at her belly. Could almost see the innocent little creature inside, slowly coming into being. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Looked down at her claws, and thought of all the lethal plants that had been born within them. Her words to Crowley came back. " _I'm_ _**poison**_." Shivering, she hid her claws behind her back. Offered the woman a nervous smile. "Er...no thank you. I - I have to go." Trying to ignore the confused look on the woman's face, Oleander bowed her head, seized seven F-sized bras, and walked as quickly as she could without running. That woman may not have known it yet, but she had dodged a bullet. And so had her baby. 

***

By the time Crowley opened his eyes, the afternoon sun was hitting the curtains with all its strength. The light, filtered by the blood-red curtains that Crowley had installed two months earlier, painted the room a glum burgundy. Yawning, and rubbing the heel of his hand over his blinking eyes, the demon stretched. Bones popped like corn kernels in a skillet, and he sighed with satisfaction. Slithering out of the bed, Crowley checked his watch...only to find it gone. Frowning, the demon twisted about, soon finding it sitting on the nightstand. Aziraphale, no doubt. As he stepped towards it, Crowley also noticed that his feet were bare. A quick gander revealed his shoes to be back in their proper place, the socks tucked inside them. Again, Aziraphale. The demon's heart swelled with affection, which further stretched his mouth into a smile. Reclaiming the watch, he learned that it was five thirty. Had he really slept for seven and a half hours? Barely anything, given the typical lengths of his naps. And yet, he felt rested and a bit more relaxed. That was something, at least.

As the last remaining cobwebs of sleep fell away, Crowley realized something: no more nightmares. Not since he'd fallen asleep in his angel's arms. Just sweet, comforting darkness.

Deep inside, he felt triumph bloom like a flower made of fire. Triumph over Hell, and the scars it had left him with.

"See?" Crowley said to the hordes of demons he'd never liked, even before meeting Aziraphale. "You hit me with your best shot - twice - and I'm still here." Smirking, he collected his shades and made his way downstairs. A spring in his step and lightness in his heart. "Angel!" He called. "Hey, angel!"

He all but flew down the steps, even with his black wings still hidden beneath his clothes. Landing on the bookshop's carpet with a small _thump_ , he soon spotted the smudge of white in the muted rainbow. When their eyes met, it made Crowley's heart spread its wings. When Aziraphale smiled at him, unabashed and filled with love, Crowley's heart flew out of his ribcage and over yonder. The two entities moved across the room and were soon in each other's arms, their mouths dancing together. Making up for lost time, for kisses never given, and then some. Pulling away with red cheeks and bright eyes, the angel peered deeply into Crowley's face. Searching for something. "Are you alright, darling? Feel rested?"

"Absolutely." Crowley grinned. "Which is why I want to celebrate."

Aziraphale's brows flew up. "Celebrate, you say?"

"Yeah!" Crowley grabbed his angel's soft arms and gave him a shake. "Angel, we have so much to be happy about! I'm back, whole and undamaged, and Heaven and Hell can't do anything to us because they think we're invincible! If that's not worth dinner and some dancing, then I don't know what is." Well, there would have been one thing even more worthy of such a night on the town. Something involving an exchange of rings. The reminder was like a physical ache to Crowley, a bruise that still stung when pressed. But he quickly, forcefully, pushed it away. There would be time to discuss the matter again. They had all the time in the world.  
Aziraphale looked a touch unsure at first. However, as their eyes continued to lock, exchanging a thousand messages that words could not express, the angel's frown gradually faded. A small smile appeared in its place. "Yes. Yes, my dear boy, that would be lovely."

Crowly let out an elated, "Ha HA!" and pressed a ferocious kiss on Aziraphale's lips, leaving the angel slightly dizzy. Clapping his hands, the demon took off. "Right. I'll go freshen up, and you book us a table at...well, wherever you like. My treat."

"Alright, dearest!" Aziraphale, whose cheeks were beginning to pinch from his wide, unceasing smile, scoured the phone book for a good eatery. He considered the facts as they were: one, no matter how exuberant Crowley was, it might still be better to keep things calm with a quiet place and two, Oleander was more than likely joining them, and the Poison Demon had probably never eaten out before. Something too wild and modern might make her feel uncomfortable. At last, the angel settled on the Silver Dragon, a calm Japanese restaurant not too far off. They made everything from sushi to udon to dumplings to Dorayaki. He and Crowley had enjoyed it immensely every time they'd gone, and Oleander would have a wide selection of dishes to choose from. Aziraphale had just gotten off the phone when he sensed something through his magic. He could not explain it, exactly, but it was strong. A disturbance, like ripples in a pond, or the echoes of a shout. He could not put his finger on it, not precisely, but he knew it was there. And it was dark.

That was when the dots connected.

His magic was reacting to Crowley's.

Without another thought, Aziraphale ran as quickly as his soft legs could carry him. It wasn't another nightmare, and Crowley wasn't screaming - yet. But Aziraphale would be damned, literally, if he was going to let his lover brave this dark moment alone.

He followed the demon's magic, like a bloodhound following a scent, and soon found him in the bathroom, which was filled to the brim with rosemary-and-lemon-scented steam. Crowley stood before the sink, his lower half wrapped in a fresh towel. His body was one, big, tightly-wound spring; his face was so rigid that it may as well have been carved out of soap. Likewise, his eyes were the size of hard-boiled eggs, and filled with panic. He was holding an old-fashioned razor that Aziraphale himself had bought him last year. Its blade was laden with shaving cream. That was when Aziraphale noticed the incision on Crowley's pointed chin. A drop fell through the air, twinkling in the light like a ruby, and joined the small puddle forming on the tiled floor.  
Aziraphale stared at it, then at Crowley. Remembering the demon's words. _"They tortured me, you know. Every. Single. Day."_ Every day, for three weeks. Three years in Hell, where time moved with the expressed purpose to prolong the torment of its trapped souls. How many times, during those three Hell years, had Crowley saw his own blood spilled?

More than anyone, mortal or immortal, should ever have to.

His heart aching, Aziraphale reached out and covered Crowley's hand with his. Trying to stop the trembling. "Crowley, my dearest..." He spoke softly, lovingly, hoping to gently coax his lover back to reality. To him. There came a sharp intake of breath. Then, blinking hard, Crowley's serpentine eyes regained their focus. Realizing where he was, and who was with him, Crowley's face stiffened with shame. He looked away, pulling his hand free of the angel's. "I...I don't know what happened." His voice was gruff with suppressed emotion. "I was just shaving, and then I heard some car horn, and...did this. I'm sorry about that, angel, I don't know why I froze, I just..."

"Remembered." Aziraphale finished, his voice filled with understanding. "When you saw the blood." Crowley refused to reply, make eye contact, react in any way to his lover's words. Aziraphale hesitated, unsure of what to do, reached behind Crowley and tore off a piece of toilet paper. Then, cupping Crowley's chin, gently dabbed at the cut until the bleeding stopped. Aziraphale leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips to the incision. The smell of rosemary and lemons, the shaving cream, and that scent that was solely Crowley's, made the angel a bit dizzy. When he pulled away, the cut had vanished. The angel looked at his lover, hoping to see a smile. Instead, Crowley looked ashamed. Like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Anyone but himself.  
Because he was hurting. He was hurting and scarred and he refused to admit it.

The angel paused before taking Crowley's hands again. "Sweetheart, I've been thinking..."

Crowley eyed him nervously.

"...do you know what humans do when...when they have issues to resolve? Here, and here?" Aziraphale tapped his temple, then placed his hand on his heart. "I've never done it myself, but I've had human friends who only had words of praise for it, and those that helped them. Maybe you might want to consider-"

"A _therapist?_ " Crowley spat the word out with such disgust that you would think Aziraphale had suggested talking to a Neo-Nazi. Laughing bitterly, Crowley shook his head. "Ha! Yeah, no. No, thank you. That's human stuff, for human problems. We're not human. That's like taking feeding birdfood to a goldfish. Just a waste of time and effort."

"Maybe, maybe not." Aziraphale countered. "We just need to find the right one, that's all. And of course I'll be there with you every step of the way, until we find someone who you feel comfortable with."

"Yeah, and what do I tell them?" Crowley challenged. "That I'm suffering from PTSD from my three weeks being tortured by demons down in Hell? I'd be off to the looney bin before you can say 'well, that went well!'"

"Crowley, dear-"

"The answer is no, Aziraphale." Crowley's reply was as firm as a rock. Yellow eyes met blue ones, filled with unspoken emotions, barely under the surface. "I know you just want to help me, and I love you for it. But believe me: I don't need some human with a framed piece of paper to help me through this. There isn't anything to help me get through!"

Even Aziraphale's patience began to slip at that remark. "Oh, so your screaming nightmare and going into shock over a little blood? That's nothing, then?"

Crowley's face reddened. With anger or shame? "It's just...I'm a little bit shaken by what happened, okay? But I can work through it on my own. I've been alive for six thousand years. I think I can get over a bad twenty-one days!"

"To you, they were three years." Aziraphale reminded him, struggling to keep his growing frustration out of his tone. "And during that time you were submitted to unspeakable acts. No one in their right mind could blame you for needing help to overcome what you endured." He searched Crowley's eyes, hoping to penetrate this wall that his lover insisted on hiding behind. "Dearest, there is nothing wrong with admitting that you need help. That doesn't make you weak; quite the opposite, in fact!"

"But I. Don't. Need it." Crowley looked away, fuming. "I'll be fine. I just need a little time, and some fun. That's all."

Aziraphale stared at his lover, and saw the wall. It was ten feet high and ten feet thick, covered with barbs and surrounded by a moat. 

Crowley was like that. Once his mind was made up, that was it. When he'd decided that he would befriend Aziraphale, somehow, he had stuck to it despite the angel's initial distance. When he thought that his best bet of getting holy water was to break into a church, employing a group of would-be human thieves, the only thing that had called off his mission had been Aziraphale caving and giving him said holy water. When Crowley thought that it might be best to kill the AntiChrist to avoid Doomsday, he'd suggested it over and over again until the gun had taken aimed. (It had missed the target, thanks to Madame Tracey, but still.)  
So if Crowley believed that he could do without therapy, then he would do just that. Brave the storm alone, even if it took longer and cost him more along the way.

Sighing, Aziraphale rubbed his face. "I...booked us a table for three at the Silver Dragon for seven thirty." He checked the clock atop the mirror, shaped like a yellow rubber duck. "So, an hour from now."

Crowley seemed relieved by the change of subject, but his bony shoulders remained stiff. "Alright. Any word on the Poison Demon?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply when the distant sound of a door closing answered for him. He closed his mouth. After all, he wasn't a codfish. "Well, there you go."

Crowley nodded. "Right." He rubbed at his chin, where the cut had been. "I'll be ready soon."

Aziraphale mimicked his movement. "Alright." Before departing, he leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on his lover's lips. A vow. _I'll be here. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I'll be here._

***

Crowley regretted how he'd behaved the moment Aziraphale left the bathroom. He didn't know why he'd sounded so hostile, why he'd spat on the concept of therapy. Because he didn't think badly of therapy; in fact, he thought it was one of humanity's better ideas. Their lives were so short, might as well try sorting out their issues before Death came a-knocking. And yet, somehow, when he tried to imagine himself in therapy, the image was all wrong, like a smile with inverted teeth.  
No. It had been a bad idea. Suggested out of good intentions, but a bad idea nonetheless. Crowley was a demon, and he had picked himself up many times before. He could do it one more time. He just needed a little time. Maybe a bit more than he'd thought he would, back when he'd woken up from his nap. That had been silly of him. No one can recover _that_ quickly. But he would be himself in no time. And he could do it on his own.

Forcing his mind to go blank, to focus only on the 'now', the demon had gotten back to prepping himself up. He selected one of his best silk shirts, black as a sinner's heart, and leather pants that would have been glued to his legs if they'd been any tighter. By the time his shoes were on, Crowley felt ready. Confident. It would be a great evening, it had to be. He and Aziraphale would talk and laugh and reminisce, just like always. And then, for the first time ages, they would go out dancing. Just what they needed.  
And maybe, just maybe, the Poison Demon wouldn't spoil their evening.

Crowley hadn't said anything when Aziraphale said that the table had been booked for three. But on the inside, he'd groaned like a tomb being forced open. The Poison Demon, his _jailor_ , was now sitting in front of him with a menu in her claws. The sight filled him with disgust, to the point that his small appetite was nearly gone. Oleander had tried to dress up for the occasion, tucking her otherwise untamed hair behind her ears and throwing on a gray dress that even a nun would have called too modest. He felt embarrassed just being in here with her. As if her intrusion wasn't a big enough thorn in his side. Oh, well. At least she'd had the good sense to bathe.  
He didn't even bother hiding his scowl. Why should he? 

Oleander's eyes, so much like Hastur's it made Crowley sick, flitted towards him before quickly returning to the menu. "Um..." She chewed her lip, eyebrows meeting in the middle. "What's...any of this stuff?"

Aziraphale, the saint-in-the-making, had prepared for this. Leaning forward with a warm, patient smile, he put a hand on the female demon's shoulder. "Well, what are you in the mood for, my dear? Something hot or cold?"

Oleander considered this, her expression an open window to her brain. At last, she said, "Cold. I'd like to try cold."

"Ah, nice choice!" Aziraphale praised her, making Crowley's flesh crawl. He finished the rest of his Asahi beer in one, long gulp. Snapping his fingers at a passing waitress, he said in Japanese, " _Another, please._ "

The waitress nodded. " _Right away, sir._ " She disappeared into the kitchen.

Looking back to his two dinner companions, Crowley tried not to laugh at Oleander's bafflement at Aziraphale's description of sushi. His gentle coaxings of, "it's really quite good," and "just one bite, that'll all I ask," did little to banish the horror in the Poison Demon's corpse-white face. Shaking her head in dismay, she downed her beverage - jasmine tea. "Satan give me strength," she muttered, "my dinner is going to be raw fish."

Crowley rested his arm on the back of his seat. "About that, Oleander, here's another lesson in blending in with humanity." He spoke in a low voice, not wanting to risk the other patrons overhearing their conversation. Oleander leaned forward, eyes wide. Crowley stretched his legs out, trying to get comfortable. "People don't usually go around saying things like 'Satan give me strength', or whatever. So you might want to keep those expressions to yourself." If Oleander heard the hint of mockery in his tone, she gave no indication. Instead, she absorbed his words like a sponge. "Well, what am I supposed to say, then? 'Jesus Christ'? 'God'?"  
"Yeah, actually." Crowley nodded. "That's the ticket."  
Oleander grimaced. "Do I have to? I mean, no offence, Aziraphale," she patted the angel's arm, "but the idea of citing the Opposition just makes me feel dirty."

"Compared to what you do," Crowley nodded his thanks at the waitress as she handed him his beer, "that's nothing."

Aziraphale flinched.

Oleander narrowed her eyes at him. "Do you have some kind of problem with me, Crowley?"

"Oh, was I being too subtle about it?" Crowley inquired, brow firmly arched.

Oleander crossed her arms. "Well, come on, then. Spit it out."

"Oh, like those kids at the store today? Just because they laughed at you?" He was still reeling from that story. "I would love to tell you my problem, love. Really, I would." Crowley leaned back as their waitress appeared, his Asahi beer sitting on her tray. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to actually enjoy my night out in the town." Claiming his beer, he eyed the angel and the female demon. "Right. Everyone ready to order?"

Oleander stared at him for a moment, her eyes large and glassy. Crowley coolly returned her gaze, brows raised. The two demons watched each other from across the table. Sizing each other up. It couldn't have lasted longer than a few seconds. Then, Crowley lifted his shaded eyes to the waitress. Switching to Japanese, he said, " _Right, I'd like the suonomono to start with, and the maguro nigiri. Finally, an uramaki salmon roll._ "

" _Make that two,_ " Aziraphale chirped in, also in Japanese, "as well as the chef's selection of sushi and sashimi. And," he placed a hand on Oleander's tense shoulder, " _a collection of nigiri for our friend."_

The word made Crowley want to scream loud enough for Mars to hear him. Oleander avoided looking at him as she drank the rest of her tea. She flinched as the hot liquid burned her tongue, but she pressed on regardless. Well, two can play that game. He turned to Aziraphale. "Did you know that sushi didn't actually originate in Japan?" 

Aziraphale blinked, his eyes twinkling with knowledge. "Oh, yes. I think I read something about that. It first appeared in Southeast Asia, did it not?" 

And off they went, discussing the first technical sushi dish (the _narezushi_ ) and how it was introduced to Japan in the Yayoi period. Unfortunately, neither of them had been there to witness it, their respective Head Offices having kept them mainly situated in Europe. But they had come across it for the first time in the United States (of all places) in the early twentieth century, during the influx of Japanese immigration. The lovers went on to recount their memories of that day, wherein they'd both counted to three before each popping a piece in their mouths. Crowley had spat his out at first, while Aziraphale had gone on to savor his...for five whole minutes. Crowley had counted. As they talked, resurrecting that encounter with zeal, Crowley kept an eye on Oleander. She watched them, listened to their exchange, but never said a word. He should have been satisfied with this, but there was a wistfulness in the Poison Demon's face that barred him from total victory.  
Despite his better judgment, Crowley found himself wondering why. 

At last, their food arrived. Aziraphale wasted no time laying seige to his dish, while Crowley took his time. Thankfully, the portions were tiny, or else his shrunken stomach would never have managed. Flashes of rotten food kept fighting for space in his mind's eye, and at one point, he nearly vomited. But he swallowed it back down, lighting his throat on fire, and soldiered on. He had to prove he could do it more than ever. Oleander simply stared down at her food as though uncertain of what to do with it. After a while, even Crowley began to pity her. But of course, he did nothing. Aziraphale, on the other hand, extended the olive branch. Because of course he did. Once again placing a hand on Oleander's shoulder, he gave her an encouraging smile. "You just have to taste it, dear. If you don't like it, that's that. But part of being on Earth, among humans, is trying new things." His eyebrows raised slightly. "So? Will you?"  
Oleander stared deeply into those blue eyes, her black ones filled with more emotions than Crowley had thought her capable of. 

Finally, she gave a nervous nod. "Okay." Carefully, she selected the tuna nigiri and held it up for inspection. Sniffed it experimentally. Then, at last, she took a deep breath and popped the piece in her mouth. She sat there for a second, eyes squeezed shut. Her jaw began to move, and her eyes flew open. Shock emanated from her every pore. Crowley smirked and sipped his beer as he watched the female demon swallow the tuna nigiri and reach for another. Then, another, then another. By the time he'd counted to seven, the plate was empty and Oleander was smiling. Pure happiness lit up her face like a sunbeam, and despite his reservations, Crowley found it...kind of cute. In spite of her stained, crooked teeth. He really had to introduce her to toothpaste soon. 

Oleander chuckled behind her claw, her breath erratic. She turned to Aziraphale. "You were right, it's great!" 

"Oh, come here!" Aziraphale opened his arms, overjoyed on her behalf. The Poison Demon shot straight into them, and the two shared a tight embrace. Crowley felt a stab of jealousy, of possessiveness, which only quelled when the hug ended. Oleander's eyes strayed in his direction for a second. In that second, her smile wavered. Returning her attention to the angel, she asked, "Do you think it would be alright if...I ordered some more?" 

If happiness could be converted into light, Aziraphale would have outshone the sun. 

*** 

Forty minutes later, Oleander had to practically be rolled out of the restaurant. Aziraphale, of course, was the one to help her. Crowley walked twenty paces ahead of them, making a beeline to the jazz club that had, in fact, introduced him to the genre back in the 1930s. It was a fine compromise between his musical taste and the angel's. And if the female didn't like it, well, she was always free to go look for another place to haunt. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Crowley tried not to listen to the voices behind him. Oleander had been with them for a day, _one day_ , and she and Aziraphale were talking and laughing like old friends. Aziraphale prattled on and on about all the other foods he couldn't wait to introduce to Oleander, while she, in turn, asked enough questions to fill an entire library. It was like iron nails on a chalkboard. 

They couldn't make it to the jazz club fast enough. The Blue Monkey, it was called, yet the interior design leaned much more heavily on warm colors. The club was small, intimate, with a cluster of tables near the walls where people of every age sat and listened. A live performance was unfolding, each soulful note painting the air into colors that could only exist to the ear. Smoke from cigars and cigarettes alike softened the air, mixing with the scent of wood polish and refreshments. Overall, it was exactly what Crowley needed.  
He turned around. Aziraphale was smiling in the same way Crowley had been, no doubt filled to the brim with memories of pleasant evenings. Oleander, on the other hand, took it all in with eyes like searchlights. Her expression was one of pure amazement. She stood perfectly still, as though afraid that moving would somehow disrupt this perfect moment. 

Which suited Crowley just fine. He grabbed his angel's hand with relish. "C'mon, angel, let's dance." 

And dance they did. Everything melted away as they moved in sync with the music, their bodies close together. Always touching in one way or another. Decades and practice had smoothed out every wrinkle in their movements, and they were as graceful as birds taking flight. The patrons were watching them now, and so was Oleander. But as the song played, and the dance progressed, the angel and the demon only had eyes for each other. To both of them, this was a blessed rain after a year-long drought. A chance to exist in this perfect little bubble of time, just the two of them, together and in love. Crowley's dark thoughts were left behind in the dance, and for the first time since the aftermath of Armageddon't, he truly felt like a weight had been lifted from his slender shoulders. 

But it could not last forever, and silence gradually took music's place. Crowley and Aziraphale lingered, their hands at each others' waists, gazing deeply into each other's eyes. The demon looked at his best friend, his lover, and wondered how so much love could fit inside his body. If he could, he would do more than shout it to the rooftops; he'd make sure entire galaxies knew how he felt. Maybe he should. It might be a step in the healing process, or whatever.  
For the time being, he contented himself with simply pressing his lips to Aziraphale's. As they pulled away, the angel grinned. No matter how many times they kissed, the angel never took it for granted. Never took Crowley for granted. It was one of the many reasons why Crowley loved him so. 

"Hey!" A man's voice burst their bubble. Both angel and demon turned as a gray-haired man, He had a frizzy silver beard and a muscled physique for his age. His hand, gruff and calloused, was slightly raised. "Do you fellows mind?" 

Crowley immediately wanted to punch his teeth in. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was simply perplexed. "I beg your pardon?" 

The man gestured behind him. At a table there was a gray-haired woman - his wife, probably - and three children. The youngest looked about eight, while the eldest was on the cusp of adolescence. The man dropped his hand, giving the couple a hard look. "Look, I got nothing against gays," he said, "but do you have to do it in front of my grandkids?" 

Crowley would have lurched forward if Aziraphale's arms hadn't been around him. The angel looked ruffled, but, never being one for confrontations, simply stuttered out a, "Sorry," before gently taking Crowley's hand and pulling him off the dancefloor. The demon followed with extreme reluctance. From the corner of his eye, he saw Oleander standing nearby. Her claws were balled into fists. Great. A spectator to his humiliation. Just what the doctor ordered. The man, unsatisfied, called out to both of them. "Remember: next time you two want to suck face in public, kids might be around." 

At this point, people were starting to stare. Even the band was watching, in the midst of their water break. 

Crowley could not stay silent. He had to blow off some steam, now, or the dam would break. Twisting his head back, he said, "Yes, and you're setting _such_ a great example." 

The man's response was immediate as it was drenched in disgust. "Oh, just what London needs: another loud-mouthed bender!" Passenger-by's on the street just outside probably heard him, loud and clear. In one deafening crack, the dam broke. Crowley spun around and marched towards the man at full speed, his lungs filled with fire. "The _**fuck**_ did you just say, Gandalf?!" Aziraphale, who had paled at the word, still tried to hold him back. Crowley didn't break stride, ignoring his angel's pleas. The man straightened, ready to get into a fistfight. Crowley was ready to do a lot more than that. But he never got the chance. 

There was a flash of gray, a grunt, and the man was toppling backwards. He cried out as he hit the floor. 

Crowley stopped, stunned, as Oleander hovered over the man. Crowley could only see her profile, most of which was concealed by her dark brown hair, but he could sense animosity fused into every cell of her body. Oleander stood there for a breath or two, letting her shadow fall over the man, before she spoke. So lowly that only Crowley's serpent hearing could catch her words. "Hello, asshole." She crouched down in front of the man, her elbows resting on her knees. "You know, we have a special spot in Hell for homophobes, and it's overseen by a gay Duke of Hell. So, have fun with that." Crowley sensed her magic being used, and, for a split second, he could see something behind that curtain of tangled locks. It was the sort of sight that sent people straight to the nearest asylum. The man let out a horrified scream that would have awakened the dead, crawling away from Oleander in horror. 

Crowley's eyes narrowed. His jaw set. 

"Hey! That's enough." A woman with short blonde hair - the owner, Anna Gomez, he recalled - appeared, stepping between Oleander and the now thoroughly terrified man. She eyed Oleander carefully. "Enough," she repeated. Oleander stood there, her expression somber. Anna turned to the man, helping to his feet. Then, she began to push him - gently - towards the door. "Come on, you. Let's go for a walk." 

"What about them?" He demanded, pointing at Aziraphale and Crowley. 

"You worry about yourself." Anna replied, pushing him a bit more. "Come on, now." She eventually managed to corral him out of the Blue Monkey, but everyone else was still watching. Stunned. 

Crowley wanted to break down. Scream. Cry. Whip out his wings and fly as far away as they could carry him. Instead, he simply took in a ragged breath and turned on his heel. Aziraphale was in close pursuit. Unfortunately, so was somebody else. 

"Are you guys okay?" 

Crowley answered that question with another one, facing Oleander full-on. "What is wrong with you?" Oleander blinked, stunned, as he pressed on. "Hm? Do you have to scar everyone who upsets you?" 

Oleander shook her head, confusion still clouding her features. "He had no right-" 

"And you do?" Crowley challenged. Oleander remained silent. Bitterly, satisfied, Crowley leaned in. Clarified, at long last. "We had a deal, Oleander. But we are not friends." 

Oleander stood there, silent, steadying her breathing. Then, quietly, she said, "Okay. See you back at the bookshop." She turned away without another word. Crowley spied the back of her dress, which was rippling unsteadily. Her wings were getting ready to come out. 

She walked out through the front door. There came the noise of flapping wings. And then nothing at all. 


	6. Angel's Trumpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from Crowley's words, Oleander begins to doubt her ability to become more human. After an argument with Aziraphale, Crowley finds Oleander, and the two finally clear the air. Aziraphale, in turn, begins to question his own behavior and the reasons behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, SO much for all your beautiful comments! They made my heart soar, truly they did! I hope you will all continue to honor me, and this story, with your comments. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also, the song Oleander sings to herself in the beginning is a translation of a song that comes from the HBO miniseries Chernobyl, entitled 'Black Raven'. In this case it is meant to be a metaphor not for death, as originally intended, but for grief and despair.)

" _ **We had a deal, Oleander. But we are not friends.**_ "

The words kept echoing in the Poison Demon's head, over and over, like the roaring tide. Taking more and more of her as the waves pulled away. 

Her wings tucked safely beneath her baggy dress, she sat on a park bench. Hugging her knees to her chest, with her hair billowing in the dark wind. It whistled in her ears, cold and sharp, turning her lungs to crystals. Oleander looked out, beyond the black trees and dark blue grass, and past the ocean of lights peeking over the park's borders. She couldn't see the bookshop from here, but she knew it was there, somewhere. Deep down, she knew that she had to go back before Crowley and Aziraphale came back. Doing otherwise would give the former more ammo and worry the latter. But in that moment, Oleander didn't care. She couldn't stand the idea of going back inside that bookshop and waiting for her fellow immortals to return. Crowley would either ignore her completely or have some more verbal lashings for her. And poor Aziraphale. Oleander hated that he was caught between her and his lover. He just wanted them to get along, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see that. Oleander, too, wanted that. But Crowley had been very clear: to him, Oleander would only ever be an intruder. A nuisance.

Maybe she shouldn't go back to the bookshop at all. Perhaps she should carve out her own niche in this strange world. Maybe live right here, in St. James' Park. Nature? Trees? Flowers? That, she knew. That, she understood. Maybe she could use her magic to create a secret, underground cave to live in, or make a treehouse. She would become known as the Witch of St. James, and the idea suited her just fine. It wouldn't be the first time she'd been mistaken for a witch. At least now she was (mostly) sure that nobody would try to burn her at the stake, or hang her, or stone her. Not that any of those methods would work, anyway. Oleander imagined dangling from a noose in agony, indefinitely, before a crowd of stupefied spectators. The image made her shudder.

Without thinking, she reached up and traced the deep scar across her throat. It hadn't even hurt, when the blade dug into her flesh. When Oleander had felt the hot blood gush forth like new wine. In fact, it had felt kind of good. To feel the strength slowly drain away, to surrender to the dark abyss of unconsciousness. When she'd woken up a few hours later, in a congealing puddle of her own blood, Oleander had felt worse. Because she was still alive, would always be alive, while the girls she'd taken under her wings were all dead and buried. Because of her.

As if summoned by Oleander's thoughts of blood and carrion, a raven cawed above her head. Her eyes followed it, a black figure against a navy sky. It landed atop a burned-out lamppost, looking about for something to eat. Just like after the trials, where the girls' bodies had been dumped in a mass grave. Every blackbird in England must have been very happy during those years. Every day, a feast. A little song came to Oleander's mind, and was soon flowing from her lips. Soothing her soul in a way that only singing could. 

_"Black raven,  
Why do you circle over me?  
You won't have your prey.  
Black raven,  
I'm not yours.  
You won't have your prey.  
Black raven,  
I'm not yours."_

Oleander's words echoed through the night, spawning new shadows as they strayed farther away. The Poison Demon sat on her bench, feeling a bit better, and watched the raven. It jerked its head about, looking for food, before raising its wings and ascending the sky once more. Oleander watched it go, leaving her alone once more. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back. The trees rustled around her, enclosing her in a leafy embrace. She could have stayed there forever, in an endless night. Far from anyone, especially those that didn't want her.  
The sound of incoming footsteps forced her eyes open. She didn't sense Crowley's power; or Aziraphale's, for that matter. Turning her head in confusion, she saw a man shambling towards her. Even in the dark, from a distance, she could see that he was a mess. His clothes were filthy and torn; his hair looked like he hadn't washed it in weeks; and dried sweat glistened on his neck and face. But his eyes were what caught her attention: they were glazed, yet hungry. Immediately, she knew what she was dealing with. Without thinking twice, she got to her feet and began to march away. Oleander heard the man pick up the pace, and soon they were walking side by side. "Hey there, pretty lady. How are you?"

Oleander could smell it off him. His bottomless hunger for poison. Just not the kind she was affiliated with. Swallowing, she replied, "I'm fine. What about you?"

"Ah, not that great." The man spoke mournfully. "I drove all the way from Dublin, to see a friend of mine. Y'know, he owed me money. But he wasn't there! So, you know, if you could give me some spare change so I can call him, that'd be great."

Oleander felt herself growing stiffer by the minute. Her skin itched; beneath it, power surged. Begging to be used. But no. She had to behave like a human. That was the whole point of her being here: to be just like a human. Trying to stay calm, she asked him, "Where is your...car?" It took her a moment to remember the word. Aziraphale had taught it to her earlier this evening.

The man frowned. "What?"

"Let me see your car." Oleander insisted. "In fact, let's see your...er..." She wracked her brains for the right term. "...I.D."

"You a copper?" The man asked.

Oleander blinked. "I don't know what that is, so no. But still, how do I know you're telling me the truth?" She already knew that he wasn't.

"Okay, fine, whatever!" The man held his hands up in surrender. He fell away, and Oleander sighed with great relief. She'd barely made it five steps, however, when the stench of his hunger flooded back into her nostrils. "Come oooon! All I'm asking for is a little change! I haven't even in days!"

Oleander inhaled through her nose. Deeply. "Not true. I can smell the sandwich on your breath." Another sniff. "Ham and cheese."

"Well...apart from that, I haven't eaten in days!" The man now jumped in front of Oleander, forcing her to halt. Up close, it was even worse. She could see the hunger eating him alive. Had seen it in dead, translucent faces. If he knew what was awaiting him after death, would he be like this? Deciding that it didn't matter, Oleander spoke firmly. "I don't have any money. And even if I did, I wouldn't give you any."

The man blinked at her, hard, then suddenly his hands were wrapped around her throat. "I'll kill you!" He tried to sound menacing, but his desperation leaked through. "Give me all you got, or I'll kill you, bitch!" His fingers dug deep into her throat, forceful and needy.

And just like that, something in Oleander snapped.

Everything that she had been harboring - her feelings of confusion, of ineptitude in this unfamiliar era, Crowley's hostility, her guilt - all came rushing out in one, towering wave.

Fuck trying to be a human. She wasn't one, plain and simple. No matter what she tried, no matter what good she attempted, it never had any effect. She was a demon. So why pretend to be something else? Something unreachable?

With an inhuman roar she reached forth and grabbed the man's face, digging her claws into his flesh. He screamed as he let go. Tried to break free. But whatever poison he was addicted to had sapped his strength, and Oleander was physically stronger than most mortals. With no effort she pinned him to the ground, her claws still hooked into his face. He struggled and fought, his eyes wide with terror. It filled Oleander with a wild rush, not dissimilar to what he'd been chasing. She hated him. She hated him for being so weak, so pathetic, so empty. And above all, she hated that he, a miserable shell of a man, was still technically more human than she would ever be. "You want your high?!" She screamed at him. Tears were running down her face, raining onto his. "Huh?! You want to see things, escape reality? Well, here you go!" Oleander summoned some seeds from thin air. One of her claws forced them into his mouth, then covered his lips. Magic flooded through her, pouring into her claw. Into his mouth. The man's screams were muffled. He twisted against her, shrieking as the plants sprouted and grew within his mouth, taking root on his tongue. His howls were muffled as leaves and bell-shaped flowers poked out of his nostrils.

But even as he fought, he was beginning to submit. Oleander could see it in his eyes. He, in turn, was starting to see things that existed only to him. She could feel a gaping smile stretch across his face. Dopey. Senseless. His blows became weaker and weaker before at last stopping altogether. The man lay beneath her, his body still and his mind miles away.

Oleander climbed off him, panting and leaking tears. Her legs wobbled underneath her, and she landed next to the man. Her victim.

Angel's trumpet. That's what she had given him. Ingestion resulted in a broken connection to reality. Hallucinations. Not fatal, but powerful. She'd given him a high that he would never forget. 

Oleander sat there, on the cold pavement. Breathing shakily. The anger was gone. So was the hatred. It had felt so good; so empowering. Had allowed her an effective escape from her own misery. But once the ride was over, here she was. No better off. Still a pretender. A demon trying to be human, but who had just stuffed a vulnerable man's mouth, throat, and nasal passages with a poisonous plant.  
Who was she trying to fool?  
Crowley had been right.

Slowly, like a fallen tree, her head drooped in her lap. The tears continued to fall.

***

With the exception of _Velvet Underground_ , the inside of the Bentley was as silent as a grave. Crowley clutched the wheel with white-knuckled hands, never looking away from the road even as the car skidded wildly down the roads. His foot was on the pedal, always pushing a little more. Eighty miles per hour. Ninety. Ninety-five. Aziraphale clutched at the sides of his seats, his face a little bit green. But he didn't beg Crowley to slow down, or stop, or anything of the sort. He just...sat there, like a mopey garden statue. Somehow, this angered Crowley more than a lecture would have.

Finally, unable to handle the tension anymore (the speeding wasn't doing anything for him anyway), Crowley said, "I had that arsehole under control."

From the corner of his eye, Crowley spotted Aziraphale's lips thinning. "Okay."

Crowley scowled. "And anyway, she can't go around using her magic on humans. She's only going to attract attention. But of course didn't consider that."

Aziraphale said nothing. Looked straight ahead.

"She's going to put us in danger. Sooner or later, Heaven or Hell is gonna sense all that magic she's using. Just like that, everything we worked for will be gone. Our retirement. Our life together. Gone! Poof!" Crowley felt stronger with every poisonous word he uttered, bolder with every breath. "She wants to get herself destroyed, fine. But she can do it someplace else. It's a big world. She can move to another city. Another continent, if she likes!"

Aziraphale, again, held his silence.

Crowley glared at his lover for a few boiling seconds before exploding. "Well, say something!"

Aziraphale sighed. "Why bother? It seems you've already made up your mind."

Crowley threw his head and let out a yowl. "For Hell's sake, angel, you're of no help at all!"

"I know." Aziraphale sounded so broken as he said this that, for a moment, it made it through Crowley's defences. The demon swerved past cars, ignoring the furious honking. Despite the ruckus, despite the speakers still blasting Queen, the angel's voice was all he could hear. "I...I realize now that I've been at it all wrong, my dear. Coaxing you to eat, to sleep, suggesting therapy...far from help you, it very well made you worse. It...was a kind of Hell for you all over again, wasn't it?"

Crowley tried to swallow. He couldn't. He refused to make eye contact. Refused to acknowledge the truth in his angel's words, and how much it stung. Focused instead on the road ahead. Blackness filled the windscreen, with streams of electric lights blazing past.

Aziraphale nodded, as thought this was the answer he'd expected. "I swear to you, Crowley, I only ever meant to help-"

"I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!" Crowley slammed his hand on the car horn as though it had offended him. It punctuated his statement. "I!" _HONK!_ "DO!" _HONK!_ "NOT!" _HONK!_ He spun around. "When are you going to get that?"

Aziraphale looked away, hugging himself. Said nothing. The minutes ticked by, and Crowley's rage only grew. Without a lick of warning, he pulled over in the middle of the sidewalk. The pedestrians yelled at him; their words fell on deaf ears. Blinking, the angel asked, "What are you doing?"

In response, Crowley lurched forward and opened Aziraphale's door. "Go on, get out."

The angel stared at him as though he'd just grown a second head. "What?"

"You heard me!" Crowley snapped. "Get the Heaven out of my car! You can walk home!"

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, his blue eyes filling with tears. There was no manipulation in those tears, no trickery. No dishonesty. Just pure love and sorrow, mixing together in a sentiment that felt too big for a body to carry. Crowley was on the verge of breaking down himself. Behind his sky-high barrier, he was wailing like broken siren. He wanted to apologize, to hold his angel in his arms, and swear that he didn't mean it. Any of it. But he didn't. Because if he let himself feel those things, then everything else would follow. All those things that he was desperately trying to keep under wraps. So he kept his face blank. Stone-like.  
Without a word, the angel turned around and climbed out of the Bentley. But not before Crowley spied a tear running down his angel's cheek, catching the light like a falling diamond. It made his organs lurch, like a sudden drop. The door gently closing sounded louder than a bomb going off.

Crowley could feel the wall beginning to crack. The emotions behind it started to howl. Pain. Terror. Humiliation. Degradation. Hopelessness. It all started to break through, reaching for him with bloodstained claws. Shaking his head furiously, the demon kicked the Bentley back into gear.

Next stop: the nearest bar.

For the next two hours Crowley drove about aimlessly, one hand on the wheel and the other curled around a bottle of gin. He drank it down greedily, ignoring how droplets stained his fine silk shirt. Down and down it went, lighting his throat on fire and turning his stomach into a furnace. And with every desperate swallow, the memories grew dimmer, the emotions attached to them shedding like scales. It was the closest to peace that he could hope for, and that was just fine. He would be fine. He could do this. Aziraphale just didn't see that yet. Crowley would heal, his way, on his terms. And the sooner the Poison Demon got out of their hair, the better. Speed up the healing process, and all that.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw a dark patch of greenery amidst the bright buildings and burning lampposts. A pang twisted in his gut. St. James Park. How many afternoons had he and Aziraphale spent there? Feeding the ducks? Going on picnics? Just strolling along, hand-in-hand? Crowley treasured all of those moments. But now, they were like daggers in his heart. 

Something stopped him. Right in the middle of the road, in fact. It was only thanks to his demonic powers that he and the car behind him didn't collide in a disaster of metal, rubber, and fuel. He sat there, hands on the wheel, and wide-eyed. The feeling continued, steady as rainfall.

Magic. And it wasn't Aziraphale's. It was darker. Wilder.

Groaning, Crowley rubbed his face with his hands as though trying to scrub away his features. "Fucking Poison Demon." He tossed aside the empty bottle of gin, climbed out of the Bentley, and locked it twice. Caring little for the speeding cars, scooters, and motorcycles that missed him by a hair, Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntered over towards the magic's source. It was easy, like following a well-lit path. The Poison Demon was exuding magic in iron-strong waves. Oleander may as well have been holding up a ten-foot glowing sign that said, HERE I AM! FORCES OF HEAVEN, OR HELL, PLEASE COME DESTROY ME!  
He moved effortlessly in the dark, cutting through the park in a straight line and crossing the little stone bridge. With every step, he felt the pull getting stronger, more insistent. The wind played with his hair and sent goose-bumps across his skin.

Memories tugged at the edge of his vision. Forcing him to look at the past instead of the present. "Stop." He whispered. "Stop it."

But it was already too late.

_For only a moment, no longer, he was back in that tiny cell. Stripped naked and chained to the wall. He was screaming himself hoarse, trying to wriggle free, as his torturer of the day doused him in ice-cold water. It burned all the heat out of his body, freezing even his bones, and even his tears turned to ice as they fell. Finally, when he was soaked from head to toe, the hose was turned off. Laughing maniacally, the demon left. Crowley curled up in as tight a ball as he could, shivering uncontrollably. But no matter how he contorted his body, which was quickly turning blue from the cold, no warmth would come to him. His body had forgotten what warmth even was._

When Crowley came to he was on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. He was trembling, but not from the chilly wind. His back was hurting because of how stiff his muscles had become. And the tears. They were leaking from his eyes, splattering on the road. Embarrassed, Crowley took ten deep breaths. By the end of it, he felt a bit better. A bit more in control.

That was when he heard it. The Poison Demon's voice, riding the wind like a leaf. Soft, low, and filled with sorrow.

_"Black raven,  
Why do you circle over me?  
You won't have your prey.  
Black raven, I'm not yours."_

Crowley followed the song, and tried not to think about how this, too, reminded him of Hell. Oleander had often sung to herself while stationed in front of her cell. Sometimes he would hear it as he lay on the floor, pretending to be asleep. Other times, her voice would make its way into his sleep, infecting both his nightmares and his sweet dreams.

Every single time he'd suffered in Hell, she had been there. In one form or another. She'd never been one of his tormentors, but she'd been a constant face in his ordeal. Always in the shadows. On the sidelines. Watching. 

At last, Crowley spotted the Poison Demon. She was sitting in the middle of the path, hunched over like a goblin, with her long hair rippling in the wind. Right next to her lay a human man that Crowley didn't recognize. He was lying on his back, looking up at the dark blue sky. The only indication that he was alive was his head lolling from side to side and, as Crowley neared, incoherent babbling oozing out of his mouth like slime. The demon peered at the man - a drug addict, he immediately saw - and spotted bell-shaped flowers growing out his mouth and nose. And yet, he was still alive. Crowley shuddered before turning his attention to Oleander, who had no reacted to his presence in any way.  
They remained like that for a few breaths: him standing, her crouched down, him looking down at her, her looking at her lap. Crowley could sense her magic coiled around her like a shroud, yet it burned feverishly with torment. He got down on one knee, keeping his eyes on her shadowed face. "Come on, let's go home."

"I'm not going." Oleander's voice was thin, ready to break. She sounded like she'd been crying.

Crowley closed his eyes and exhaled, sharply, through his nostrils. "Oleander-"

"I said I'm not!" Oleander insisted, only now looking up at him. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying. "Okay? I'm not going back to the bookshop." She didn't even sound angry, just scared. Desperate. Like a child who apologizes when afraid of being beaten. It was too raw to be faked; Crowley sensed it, and it left him stunned. Oleander lowered her face again, concealing it in the shadows. Sniffling, she added, "You must be happy to hear that, right? I'm out of your life, for good."

Crowley groaned, rubbing his temples. His words from earlier came back, about Oleander going away. It had felt so good at the time, so righteous. Now, it just felt cruel. "Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know how to rent a place yet. You don't have any money. Where are you going to live?"

"Here. In the park. In nature." Oleander's voice trembled. "It'll be better for anyone. You and Aziraphale can go back to your lives and I'll just...be here. Alone." She swallowed down a sob. Her fingers trembled.

Crowley's eyes flickered back to the drug addict, who had a smile stretching from ear to ear. The sight made his skin crawl.

Oleander must have sensed where he was looking, for her next words were, "He...he wanted money. When I wouldn't give him any, he..." She rubbed her neck. "So I gave him what he wanted." The demon sighed, looking away.

"Crowley?"

The demon glanced over his skinny shoulder.

"Why do you hate me?"

Crowley was stuck. Just like that. Pinned into place like a butterfly on display. He looked inward, trying to find an answer. He'd had plenty, just half an hour ago in the Bentley. But now, they'd all vanished. Melted away like alpine snow in the first weeks of spring. He simply stared at her, at those puffy eyes and tearstained face, and found himself asking, "Why?"

Oleander blinked.

"Why do you even care?" Crowley asked, his voice cracking. "Why do you want to be friends, or whatever? Our deal was that you help me get out of Hell, and I teach you how to blend in with the humans. As far as I'm concerned, I was just a glorified tool in your escape. So, why the change of heart?"

Oleander began to play with her hair, still not making eye contact. "I...I've always admired you. Always."

Crowley's eyebrows flew off his face. Oleander must have noticed because she insisted. "Yeah! For one thing, you brought about the Original Sin. How many demons can boast that? You know what my first big accomplishment was? Fly agaric." Crowley imagined those little mushrooms, with their red, white-spotted caps, and chuckled. Oleander nodded. "Yeah. That was the first thing I ever created, on my first day on the job." She paused. "But beyond that...you were always so different from the rest of us. You went topsoil, saw the world, experienced life in a way none of us had. You...created yourself. Made yourself a person before you were a demon." Oleander's voice broke at the last word. "I admired that so much, thought it was incredible. There'd be times when I heard about you, how well you were able to walk among humans and all the journeys you went on, and thought, 'Satan, could something like that ever happen to me?'" She hugged herself. "I thought, maybe, coming here...I could do what you did. Become a whole person. Find a home. Someone to love. And, maybe, just maybe...we could be friends. That I'd become someone you'd want to befriend." She lowered her voice. "But I was wrong. I...I can't do this." The tears were returning. Crowley could hear them. "I'm just a demon." She covered her face with her claws and broke down into sobs, her shoulders trembling. 

For a few minutes, the two demons stayed like that. One in tears, the other shocked into silence. The night was silent, with the city's noises seemingly miles away. Only Oleander's weeping put a dent into the quietude. In that time, Crowley took in her words. Went over them. And tried to answer her question: _"Why do you hate me?"_  
He thought about it, truly he did. And when he did grasp onto it, he did not feel any better. In fact, he felt worse. Pathetic. Immature. Irrational.  
But at least he knew how to take that first step.

Crowley placed his hand on Oleander's shoulder. The gesture, so unfamiliar and unexpected, was enough to make the Poison Demon turn her head. She gasped as Crowley's arms wrapped around her, pulling her to his chest. Crowley felt her go rigid in his arms, remaining perfectly motionless, as if a single twitch on her part would destroy this moment. "I'm...sorry." He whispered. Oleander twitched in surprise, still too scared to move or speak. Looking down at her, Crowley bunched up his sleeve and dabbed at her cheek. "I...I'm trying to work through this. And I will. All I need is time. Hell knows we have plenty of that. But..." He drummed his fingers on her back, sighing. "I...don't hate you."

"Could've fooled me." Oleander mumbled.

Crowley gave her a look. "I'm trying to apologize here. Please work with me."

Oleander grumbled but said nothing more. Satisfied, but increasingly nervous, Crowley continued. Trying to stop his hands from shaking. "I...guess I just...I associated you with what happened Downstairs." He could feel the Poison Demon shift against him. Felt her face tilt up at him. But he couldn't look at her. Not yet. Or she'd look into his eyes and see everything. "You personally never hurt me. But you were there for it all. Every day. Every session. You were there. You brought me there. You took me back to my cell when it was over. You fed me that rubbish. You healed my wounds. Every single memory I have to that time has you in it." He could feel Oleander start to tremble, and tightened his grip in response. "I...I'm not quite over that, yet. But...if you could give me another chance...I would like to try." The words were hard to say, but that did not make them any less true.  
Oleander was thoroughly shaking at this point, and Crowley could feel the front of his shirt dampen. "I'd like that." Her reply was barely above a whisper.

For the first time since his dance with Aziraphale at the Blue Monkey, Crowley smiled. "Alright, then." He patted her back. "It's late. Aziraphale will be worried sick." Oleander carefully moved out his arms, and stared at him as she did so. Her eyes were wide and full of emotions, swimming like stars in black skies. They watched him, evaluating him, before flitting to the drug addict. Oleander snapped her fingers, and the plant pulled itself out of him. Tore itself from his nostrils, slithered out of his mouth. Then, like a tumbleweed in an old Western film, the angel's trumpet curled up in a ball and rolled away, fueled by the wind. Oleander watched it go. Crowley, meanwhile, stood up and brushed the dust from his knees. Then, he waved his hand over the addict's dopey, dazed face. Come tomorrow, the human would remember nothing of his encounter with the Poison Demon. "What did you give him?" Crowley asked, his tone calm and conversational. He could sense the tension break, if only a little, as Oleander answered. "Angel's trumpet."  
Crowley snorted at the name.  
"Yeah, I know." Something akin to a smile broke out across Oleander's strong-jawed face. "I thought it'd be funny to give it a name like that. You know, since it gives you hallucinations and angels are delusional." She blinked, then gave a nervous smile. "Well...I didn't know Aziraphale at the time."  
Crowley's snort turned into a full-on laugh. He held out his hand to Oleander, who was still on the ground. She stared at it, then at him, before grasping it.

Just like that, Crowley sensed that things would never be the same between them. And that was a good thing.

***

Aziraphale sat in his armchair, his cup of tea sitting cold nearby. He'd changed into a nightgown, but otherwise had done nothing but stare at the clock since he'd returned home. All he could do was count the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Hoping that Crowley, or Oleander, would come back. But neither of them had, and with every minute that extended their absence, Aziraphale found himself slipping further and further into despair.

Oleander had only meant to help. That much was clear as day. She was trying to fit in, to do what was right. But Crowley's words, the angel knew, had cut her deep. He hadn't been surprised to find that she hadn't come back, even though she'd flown and had left before them. Where was she? Wandering about, dejected and alone? A part of him wanted to go out and look for her. But mostly, he feared abandoning his post, in case either demon came back. Besides, he felt that she could use some time alone. If she wasn't back by morning, he decided, he'd go find her.

As for Crowley...

The angel's eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away, but he might as well have tried to put out a fire with a teaspoon of water. He and Crowley had bickered plenty of times in the past, but those discussions had always been about trivial matters, and they would always end with the two of them agreeing to disagree. They had indeed had big arguments, but they had always been few and far-between: the discovery of fire, the exclusive guest list for Noah's ark, what would happen to those left behind during the Flood, and how utterly pointless it was to send a prophet down to Earth only to kil him just over three decades later. But this? This was personal, and it was escalating.

No matter how Aziraphale tried to repair it, tried to smooth out the edges, he found himself building a castle on sand. He'd been wrong to push Crowley to eat and sleep, he realized that now. It had done nothing but further pressure the poor dear into acting normal. Maybe Crowley felt ashamed by his experience, as if he'd somehow asked for it. Or maybe it was Hell's influence: either you bare your fangs, or you get downtrodden. Oleander had torn out a human's throat when he'd tried to assault her. Crowley, too, had bitten off body parts. Clearly, in Hell, only the strong survive. Had that mentality stayed with Crowley after all these years, making him feel that he had to repress his pain? Aziraphale had no idea what the right answer was, which was partly why he'd suggested a therapist to begin with. Someone who had studied the human mind might offer an inkling on how to navigate the labyrinthian mind of an immortal. Maybe. As it were, there were no therapists for immortals, so this was the best idea that Aziraphale had had.

But maybe Crowley was right. Maybe he really didn't need any help, and was perfectly capable of picking himself up. Crowley was strong: much stronger than Aziraphale. He could do anything he set his mind to. Aziraphale just had to...back off. 

A disturbing thought then entered Aziraphale's mind, spreading like a drop of ink in a glass of water. Did he want to help Crowley recover from his time in Hell out of concern...or guilt? After all, he was the one who'd driven Crowley out of the house that night with his rejection. He was the one who'd devastated Crowley to the point that the demon didn't notice the incoming car. Deep down, he was responsible for what happened. He'd driven his lover away, ironically, with his fear for him. For them. That Heaven and Hell would learn the truth and seek to destroy them. If he'd been braver, more sure of their side like Crowley was, then maybe they never would have argued. Crowley never would have gotten hit by that car, and gotten discorporated. He never would have returned to Hell's clutches.

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands, letting out a shaky sigh. 

The front door creaked open, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned around, and his heart took flight. Oleander and Crowley were coming inside, their cheeks ruddy from the cold and their hair windswept. "Oh, thank goodness!" The angel hurried toward Oleander first, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Dear girl, are you alright?"

Oleander looked at him, saw his barely-concealed concern, and her face crumpled. "I'm sorry." She rested her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around him. Aziraphale was too stunned to do much else except return the embrace. The Poison Demon's repeated apologies got swallowed by his nightgown. Beneath it, Aziraphale's heart ached. "Now, now," he encouraged, stroking her uncombed hair, "it's alright, dear. Just...please, don't run off like that again." He pulled her away a bit, and tucked some locks behind her ears. His eyes flitting toward Crowley, Aziraphale said, "Whether...whether you live here, or someplace else, I want you to know that we care about what happens to you. Okay?"  
Oleander nodded, eyes shining wetly in the lamps' lights.

For the first time, Aziraphale saw Oleander's irises, nearly swallowed as they were by her pupils. There, very faintly, was a thin ring of indigo.

Smiling softly, the angel leaned forward and pressed a small kiss on Oleander's forehead. Innocent, chaste, but full of meaning. As he pulled away, the two exchanged their goodnights and Oleander scampered up the steps. But, like Crowley had just twenty minutes earlier, Aziraphale knew that something had changed for good.

Feeling suddenly nervous, he faced Crowley. The demon had his hands in his pockets, looking almost boyish. He peeked at the angel from the rims of his shades. "...Hi."

"Hello."

Crowley chewed on his bottom lip, looking at anything except for Aziraphale. "Listen...what I said before-"

"There's really no need." Aziraphale tried to assure him.

"No, really, let me finish." Crowley persisted. He sounded so desperate that the angel reluctantly held his tongue. Let him speak. Relieved, the demon continued. "I did a shitty thing earlier. A really shitty thing. And I apologize. I...I have a lot to work on, but that doesn't give me the right to act like a knobhead whenever I damn well please. You're my lover, my best friend, and we've been through every thick and thin you can think of. You deserve better than to be verbally bitch-slapped and thrown out of the car when I get mad. I...I promise it won't happen again. As for Oleander..." Crowley sucked in the air through his teeth. "I want to try to befriend her. So, there's that." His shoulders slumped. "If you want me to sleep on the couch tonight, I'll go grab a pillow."

"You will do no such thing."

Aziraphale was before Crowley in an instant, taking both his hands. Looking into those gorgeous yellow eyes, and hoping to project all of his feelings into his blue ones. "I also feel the need to apologize. I pushed you, I see that now. All I wanted was to help you recover. But sometimes, the best thing one can do is take a step back. So, no more talk of therapy, of issues, unless you mention it first. I will always be there for you, always. Until the end of time, or my existence. Whichever comes first. And I want to give you what you need. If what you need is to resolve this issue on your own, then I will respect your decision. But, my love?" He cupped Crowley's face, his thumb gently tracing the cheekbone. "No matter what, I will stand by you, love you, and cherish you. Even when you, as you say, verbally bitch-slap me."

The jape provided some much-needed mood lightening, and the two shared a gentle, loving kiss. Hand in hand, they climbed up the stairs.

***

An hour later, just as the couple was about to go to sleep, they received a knock on the door. Exchanged a curious, confused look. "Yes?" Aziraphale called.

"It's...it's me," came the quiet reply. Then, the bedroom door opened. Oleander tip-toed inside, looking more than a little bashful. She was wearing one of Aziraphale's bathrobes, and her claws were stuffed into the pockets. The two lovers sat up in bed, staring first at her then at each other. Crowley ran a hand through his copper-colored hair. "You alright?"  
Oleander gave a shy nod. "Um...I was just wondering..." She paused. "...Can I sleep with you two tonight?"

There was a brief, awkward silence that Crowley aptly broke. "Uh...yeah, come on." He patted the space between him and his angel. Aziraphale, who had also recovered, smiled warmly at the female demon. "Yes, please do, my dear." Oleander didn't need telling twice. She crawled atop the blankets, nestling herself right in between the angel and the demon. Lying on her back, she looked at one, then the other. "Goodnight." She pecked Crowley on the cheek. Then, she did the same with Aziraphale. Smiling gently, she placed her claws at her sides and closed her eyes. She was asleep seconds later.

The couple stared down at the female demon before sharing yet another, baffled look. Aziraphale turned off the light, and Crowley did the same. Darkness filled the room like coffee in a mug. Aziraphale lay there, staring at the ceiling, before turning his head. Like Oleander, Crowley was already out of it. As he looked at them, a rush of fondness filled Aziraphale's heart. He turned on his side and, almost as an afterthought, took Oleander's claw. She instinctively wove their fingers together. Even in sleep, she was careful not to scratch him. Crowley, too, shifted in his sleep. A skinny arm curled around Oleander's middle, his face resting between her shoulder blades. With this last image, Aziraphale closed his eyes.  
It was the best night's sleep he ever had.


	7. Black Bryony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks pass. With Crowley and Aziraphale's help, Oleander continues on her path to integration. Aziraphale proposes that the three of them do something that they have never done - which is truly saying something for a trio of immortals. 
> 
> The Dark Council's prediction comes true, and Heaven at last notices the increase in demonic magic on Earth. Sandalphon and Uriel are sent to investigate, and try to beat the information out of Aziraphale. Oleander doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support, comments, and kudos! They keep me going! Please, enjoy!

It wouldn't be until much later, when it became an unspoken fact that Oleander would not be going anywhere, that Aziraphale and Crowley agreed that it would be better for her to have a fake I.D, just as they did. When they explained it to her over breakfast one morning, six weeks after that she and Crowley's heart-to-heart, Oleander tilted her head. "Why do humans need to be identified?" She asked. "I mean, in Hell, it's clear why: so that our powers and actions can be monitored, and action can be taken for misconduct. Without it, Hell would be chaos. Well," she smirked, "even more chaotic."

"True that," Crowley admitted, sprawled over his chair, "but humans need I.D. cards to do many things, like vote and pay taxes."

Oleander, who'd only recently learned what taxes were during her first-ever viewing of television, wrinkled her nose. "You pay taxes?"

"Well, I don't," Crowley nudged his angel's foot under the table, "but Aziraphale does."

Aziraphale blushed slightly at the foot-touching, but nodded from his cup of tea. "Yes, indeed."

Oleander stared at Aziraphale as though she'd just heard he washed himself in bleach. "But why? There's no point!"

Aziraphale patted Oleander's claw. "Well, my dear, I was assigned to live among the humans. To me, personally, that meant doing everything that they did - including pay bills and cover taxes, even if technically I could get away with not doing it. Otherwise, to me, it would not have been fair." He gave her a gentle smile. "But of course, if you don't want to, that's perfectly fine as well."

Oleander's shoulders loosened. "Oh, thank Satan." 

Crowley belted out a laugh while Aziraphale, still smiling gently, continued to sip his tea. "All the same," the angel told her, "it could come in handy, especially if a bobby stops you and asks for I.D."

"Why would they do that?" Oleander asked.

"Eh, more human issues. Explaining them would take far longer than breakfast, that's for sure." Crowley replied, finishing the last of his black coffee. "So, what do you say? Are you feeling up for a little field trip?"

Oleander gave him a smirk. "Do you even have to ask? Look, I'll finish breakfast right now." she took her bowl of corn flakes and brought it to her lips. She jugged it all down, milk and cereal alike, in the span of about five seconds. Crowley was impressed. Aziraphale, on the other hand, worried that she might choke. Oleander slammed the now-empty bowl down and unleashed a loud burp. The angel jumped at the sound, causing both demons to laugh. "Excuse me." Oleander murmured, wiping her grin with the back of her claw. 

Ten minutes later saw the dishes washed, the bookshop's front door locked, and the three immortals walking down the street. Crowley on the left, Aziraphale to the right, and Oleander sandwiched between them. It was a dark and gloomy day, with thick clouds the color of gunmetal hovering above London's rooftops. The air was clammy and tasted of rain. Oleander loved it. While Aziraphale loved all weather, of course, and Crowley adored long, scorching summers (the better to take on his snake form and bask in the sun), Oleander had soon decided that she loved storms above all. The clouds, the rainfall, the lightning...it all felt alive to her, an ordinary miracle of nature. She loved dancing in it, as she had just last week (much to the puzzlement of the humans who witnessed it), and adored how it cleansed the air, washing away the pollution if only for a little while. And, of course, rainfall did wonders to most of her creations. She could almost always hear them sing with joy after every storm concluded. Oleander was just contemplating whether or not she should dance in the rain again, even though Aziraphale had explained that humans usually found such behavior 'odd', when Crowley tapped her arm.

Blinking up at him, she saw him smirking. "Feel like a pop quiz?"

Oleander beamed. "Yeah!"

"Alright, then." Crowley's long, thin arm stretched out. Pointed. "What's that?"

"Uh," Oleander scrambled for the word, nervous, before exclaiming, "that's a cab!"

"Right." Crowley nodded. "And that?" He pointed again. 

"A...pub?"

"Yes. British culture in a nutshell." Crowley confirmed before pointing again. "And that?"

Uh-oh. A little harder. As she took in the item, Oleander drummed her claws against her bottom lip. Only centuries of practice kept her from piercing it. "It's a...a..."

"You got this." Aziraphale encouraged softly. Like oil on fire, it spurred her answer. "A...phone booth!"

"You got it." Crowley smirked, lowering his arm.

Oleander, somewhat unsatisfied, asked, "But why are they even still around? I thought humans had tiny little phones that they could carry in their pockets!"

"They do," Aziraphale confirmed, "but sometimes, people forget those little phones. Mobiles, they're called." He reminded her. "Besides, phone towers can get damaged, and some people want to make calls that won't be traced back to them. And so on and so forth."

Oleander nodded, taking in the angel's words. 

She looked so thoughtful, so attentive, that Crowley couldn't help ruffling her hair. "You're doing great."

Oleander stared at him. "Really?"

"For someone whose concept of technology goes back almost three hundred years, yeah." Crowley offered her a crooked smile. "Soon, you'll be able to blend in just fine." He meant it. Oleander could tell. But he probably had no idea how much his words meant to her. How they were able to reach into her chest and fill her heart with joy. Grinning from ear to ear, Oleander took his hand in her claw. Then, she did the same for Aziraphale. Satisfied, and still brimming with joy, she went about walking as though nothing had changed. But the same could not immediately be said for the angel and the demon. They looked down at her, at their joined hands, and then at each other. It was easy to do: Oleander was exactly five feet tall, more than an entire foot shorter than Crowley and ten inches shorter than Aziraphale. The way she took their hands so casually, as if she'd been doing it for eons, tugged at both their heartstrings. Tenderness found its way in both their hearts and, as one, the three made their way down the road.

***

When a modern human needed an I.D. card in England, they needed to undergo a series of steps, starting with creating an online account, complete a registration form, and make a payment. But ever since possessing such documents became mandatory, both Crowley and Aziraphale had found it easier to simply have fake ones forged. It was faster, cheaper, simpler, and required no in-depth background checks. The last part was especially important to the angel, who'd owned the same bookshop since the 1790s. How he did this was simple: by living out a series of normal human lifespans, feigining his own death, staying off the radar, and coming back a set number of years later as his own nephew, son, or what have you. Each new life needed a new name and a slightly different appearance. As long as he paid the right amount, no questions were asked and his documents were made.

The office itself, Ink Point, was nothing extraordinary. Just a small building whose primary function was to print out business cards and documents. It was owned by the son of the son of the daughter of the man who had first supplied the demon and the angel with forged I.D. At this point, their appearance with the same request as their forefathers was practically added as a p.s. in the will. That was why, when the man behind the desk saw the two gentlemen walk in, he wasted no time in retrieving the forms. "Hello!" He summoned two ballpoint pens, which he handed to his two customers. "I know the drill by now, don't worry. Just fill out the forms, and -"

"Oh, my good fellow, no!" Aziraphale interrupted, holding up a plump hand.

The man blinked. "Huh?"

"It's still me, Mr. A.Z. Fell." Aziraphale pointed to himself before gesturing to his lover, "and this is still Anthony J. Crowley the Third." He smiled disarmingly as only he could. Turning to Oleander, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gently brouht her forward. "We're here on the behalf of this lovely young lady."

"Ah." The man looked her over, lingering on her uncombed hair and long, curved nails. "Okay then, er..." He held up a hand. "Hello, my name's Christian."

Oleander barely bit back a chortle.

Christian tugged up an eyebrow. "What's funny?"

"No, no, nothing." It took some effort for Oleander to drop the smile. At last, she took his hand and gave it a shake. "Pleased to meet you. My name's Ol-" She stopped, realizing too late that human females usually weren't named after poisonous plants. Oh, Satan, why hadn't she come up with a fake, human-sounding name on the way here?!

Christian frowned. "Ol?"

Thinking quickly, Oleander managed, "Ol...ivia. Yes, Olivia."

"Olivia. Okay." Christian nodded, one hand on the computer. "And your last name?"

Oh, shit. Oleander was struggling to think of something convincing when Crowley stepped in. "Crowley, sir. Olivia Crowley." Oleander looked up at the demon, shocked, as it was his turn to wrap his arms around her shoulders. "She's my sister, just come back from a sabbatical year in the Americas. Unfortunately, she lost her I.D. on the flight back. Didn't you, sis?" He asked her, brows slightly raised.

Oleander stared at him for a second, mouth agape and full of admiration. The snake of Eden had just spun a lie so easily that it would have put Satan Himself - the Lord of Lies - to shame. She recovered and grinned. "Yes, that's right...bro." The word felt strange to say, clumsy and new.

Christian looked first at Crowley, then at Oleander. His brow crinkled. "Huh. Don't see the resemblance."

"Well, Mum had an active social life," came Crowley's easy answer. Oleander broke down into chuckles, snuggling closer to him. Aziraphale watched them interact with a soft smile on his face. Trying to ignore the happiness that she was feeling, at being considered a sister to someone she liked and admired so much, Oleander turned to Christian again. "Er, the flight was...long."

Christian nodded empathetically. "Oh, don't tell me. Last year the wife dragged me to Norway to see the Northern Lights. The flight never seemed to end, and neither did my time in that frozen hell."

Crowley and Oleander shared a snicker at the last word as the latter compiled the form. 

Five minutes later, the information was filled out and the documents were nearly ready for printing. The only thing left to do was go behind the curtain, where a camera, lights, and a pale blue backdrop sat waiting. Oleander was guided to a stool in front of said backdrop, but her curiosity would not be so easily dissuaded. She was already poking at the backdrop, then peering at the camera. Her face took up the entire computer screen. Then, just as she started fiddling with the cables, Aziraphale stepped in. "Dear? Please, sit down." His hands on her arms, he steered her back to the stool. "Just one picture, and then we can go home. Okay?"

"Okay." Oleander replied, smiling shyly. Relieved, Aziraphale stroked her cheek before getting out of frame. Christian, who had been watching Oleander move about the same way one would observe a monkey at the zoo, at last stood into position. Standing in front of the computer, with the camera ready to go, he called out to 'Olivia'. "Alright, three...two...one!"

The light flashed, startling Oleander into baring her teeth.

Crowley sighed, dropping his head. Aziraphale winced sympathetically.

"Uh..." Christian hesitated, looking from the picture to the woman, whose posture had since gone on the defensive. "Er, let's try this again. But try to relax your face, okay? The light's not gonna eat you."

"Oh." Oleander blushed all the way up to her roots. "Sorry."

"Happens to the best of us, dear!" Aziraphale assured her from across the room. Oleander gave him an appreciative look but made no reply.

Christian deleted the snarling picture. "Okay, one more time. Three...two...one!" The light flashed again. This time, Oleander's expression remained neutral. 

A minute later, the I.D. was emerging from the humming printer, warm as a scone. "Here we go." Christian held it up for inspection before passing it to Oleander...from a safe distance. That picture would haunt his nightmares for a while. "There, that's yours. Now," his eyes flickered from Crowley to Aziraphale, who had since rejoined the woman's side, "where's my money?"

Crowley sighed, reaching into his coat pocket, and gave Christian a small wad of bills. Christian grinned, tucking the wad into his jeans' pocket. "Alright, we're done here. Olivia, it was nice to meet you." The two shook hands again. "Don't lose it, okay?"

"I won't." Oleander assured him, tucking the card into her blouse pocket. Feeling a buzz run through her as she did so. She had I.D. Just like humans. The three immortals emerged from Ink Point, to be greeted by the soft rumbling of stormclouds above. Grinning with anticipation, Oleander turned to her two companions. "So, what now?"

"It's a little early for lunch." Aziraphale remarked.

"And I'm not quite in the mood for brunch, either." Crowley remarked. Conveniently ignoring the fact that all he'd had for breakfast was coffee, and he'd skipped dinner the night before. Aziraphale, in spite of himself, took in how skeletal his lover was. But, keeping to his promise, he said nothing. 

Oleander thought about it, tapping her bare foot on the pavement. Suddenly, she brightened. "St. James?" 

Aziraphale simpered. "Well, the ducks _do_ need feeding." 

And that was that.

***

Heaven was perfect. This was unquestionable. It was forever encased in a gentle, pearly light that neither blinded the angels nor let the shadows spread too widely. Every great human accomplishment had come from here, from the whispers of righteous souls and especially creative angels. Every great work of art, be it a poem or a bridge, would never have existed without Heaven. So, in a sense, Heaven's Big Ben, pyramids, and Great Wall were the 'originals' while their earthly counterparts were the 'replicas'. And quite faulty ones at that. Every soul that passed the Pearly Gates was given suite-like accomodations, as well as a role to perform serving Her and semi-mandatory invitations to the weekly public playing of 'The Sound of Music'. The musical's creator, Richard Rodgers, was especially thrilled at that. It was almost as satisfying as having been made a literal angel by the Almighty upon his death.

It was a gorgeous place, Heaven. A perfect place. The only place to be. If the War had started, the way it was supposed to, then the rest of the Solar System would have become fertile ground to construct an extension of Heaven. And Hell? It would have been burned away to nothing, and the ground sown with salt. With every demon slaughtered, of course. 

But alas, such a glorious plan had not come to pass. Why? Because an angel and a demon had gone native, lost their species' weaknesses, and taken a stand. Had convinced the _AntiChrist_ , of all people, that he could change his destiny. Both Heaven and Hell had tried to punish their traitors, but the plan had backfired. So, they'd been forced to leave them alone. For the most part, Heaven had gone about its business: redeemed souls, sent down miracles, and awaited for Her to speak. Which hadn't happened yet, but it would. Because of course it would. The angels were Her most loyal and perfect creatons. She would not abandon them.

The Archangel Gabriel had just been standing at the top floor of Head Offices, waiting for an answer to his prayer, when echoing footsteps distracted him. Trying to pretend like he hadn't been doing anything, he cleared his throat and turned. Michael was approaching, her pale, perfect face stiff with emotion. Concern. Excitement. Battling for dominance beneath a thin layer of professionalism. Gabriel immediately faced her fully. "What is it?"

Michael took a deep, calming breath. "Our messangers have been coming back with unusual reports, recently. They claimed that every time they entered England, they felt a demonic presence there. But not the demon's Crowley's; they're used to him by now. They mean another one."

Gabriel's purple eyes widened. The edge of his mouth started to twitch. "Well, demons are always passing through Earth. Tempting humans, collecting souls, and so on."

"Yes, but their presence is usually flitting. Here one moment, gone the next." Michael reminded him. "But this is constant, unwavering." She paused for effect. "Almost as though another demon has decided to stay on Earth, for whatever reason. Of course, I didn't want to come to you with theories alone. So I went back to the Earth Observation Files, and guess what they had to show?" Three photos were placed on a spotless white table that hadn't been there a second ago. Gabriel bent over, peering at each image carefully.

The first image showed the demon Crowley in St. James Park, late at night. But he wasn't alone. A human was lying on his back, his eyes vacant and his mouth and nose overflowing with angel's trumpet. Sitting next to the human, with her long hair concealing her face, was a barefooted female demon. Gabriel could tell immediately. Angels and demons could not only sense each other, but recognize each other on sight. Even if an angel and a demon had never laid eyes on each other before, they always instantly knew who - and what - they were looking at. It was part of the Great Plan: a means to identify each other, immune to lies, and avoid being led astray. (It hadn't worked for the traitor, but still.) 

The next photo displayed the traitor, along with the two demons, stargazing of all things! Lying on a picnic blanket, with a collection of biscuits and a thermos of hot tea, the trio was lying in a triangle with their heads almost touching. They looked...happy. Content. It made Gabriel want to retch at how unnatural it was. 

The final image was no less saccherine. It showed the traitor and his two demon pets emerging from what the messengers called a 'movie theatre' that was apparently 're-showing' something called 'Moulin Rouge'. Aziraphale and the female demon looked like they were engaged in some by-the-number dance, while the demon Crowley watched them with a smirk. In this scene, too, they looked happy. Like the many human families that worshipped them. But those souls were saved, redeemed, and these three were anything but.

Gabriel pointed at the female demon. "Who is this?"

"Does it matter?" Michael asked. "But, if you like, I can send Uriel and Sandalphon down to find out."

Gabriel straightened. "Yes. Do that. Bring her back here, if necessary, and find out why she's here." He leaned forward. "But don't bring her here unless you absolutely have to, alright? Their stink can take months to air out."

"Of course." Michael nodded. Pausing, she added. "You do realize what this could mean, right? Hell could be...plotting something." But she was smiling when she said it.

"Indeed, they probably are." Gabriel replied, smugly smirking. "So, it would be perfectly justified if we were to strike them before they can bring their plot to fruition."

Michael's smile widened. "I'll send them down. And then...we can begin preparing."

Gabriel shot her a thumb's up. "Second time's the charm."

***

During her six weeks on Earth, with the angel and her fellow demon, Oleander had never felt more alive. For the first time in her existence, she could choose for herself what to do, and when to do it. For the first time, she had a space to call her own, and every day brought something new. In countless ways she still felt like an outsider, and she knew that she still had a laughable amount to learn. But the cons could not, by a long shot, diminish the pros. Oleander felt...happy. For perhaps the first time since her last time on Earth, when she'd been the witch of the wood teaching women about plants. Oleander only wished she'd made her escape sooner...and that humans weren't so fixated on shoes. She found them uncomfortable even when the size was technically right. And she still could not help nibbling on the bread that was supposed to be given to the ducks. Human food was much, much better than she'd ever imagined. No wonder even the birds couldn't get enough of it!  
As she was stuffing another piece of baguette in her mouth, she was elbowed by her 'brother'. "Leave at least some for the ducks, for Satan's sake."

Oleander, stuffing the food in one cheek, stuck her tongue out at him. "You two are fattening them up something shameful. What, do you want to cook them for Christmas dinner?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." Crowley began.

"Oh, hush you!" Aziraphale kissed his lover's cheek. Tossing a chunk at a particularly eager-looking swan, the angel continued. "Speaking of which, maybe we should begin discussing Christmas plans. It's only a couple of weeks away, after all."  
This statement had both demons' heads turning. Crowley frowned. "But we've never celebrated Christmas before, angel. Remember your mandatory company parties?"  
Aziraphale cringed at the memory. "Yes. It was always a...dull affair, to be honest."  
Oleander grimaced. "Did you have to listen to hymns, or something?"  
"For ten straight hours." Aziraphale reported. "Even before and after the party...which is nothing like the festivities humans have down here, mind you. No food. No entertainment. Just the choir singing non-stop while the angels gather, talking about work."  
"How exciting." Oleander muttered, taking another bite of baguette. "We never did anything Downstairs. Just worked." 

"Exactly." Aziraphale smiled down at her, then at Crowley. "This will be the first Christmas after the End Times. A special event, indeed. And besides," he paused, smiling sweetly at the both of them, "This shall also be first Christmas we all spend together. As a family of sorts."

Oleander stared at the angel for a long moment. Her jaw was dropped, revealing a mouthful of bread. Clamping it shut, she chewed and swallowed. "You...you mean..." She could hardly say it. "You see us as a family?"

"Well, moreso than the angels up there, certainly." Aziraphale replied, his blue eyes flitting towards the dark, roaming clouds. He reverted his gaze to the demons. "So...do you like the idea?"

"Aziraphale, I..." A slow smile spread across Crowley's face. He walked over to the angel and cupped his face. Pressed their lips together in a fierce, loving kiss. The angel responded immediately, wrapping both soft arms around him. They held onto each other for an entire minutes, lips sealed together, before at last breaking apart. Crowley was still smiling as they pressed their foreheads together. "That's exactly what we need. I'm just sorry I didn't think of it first."

"Well, let me come up with some good ideas from time to time." Aziraphale replied.

"Never." Crowley pecked the angel's nose before at last pulling away, his arm still snaked around Aziraphale's plump waist. "Well, if we're going to do this, we've got to do this right." With some reluctance, he let go of his angel. "It seems I've got some Christmas shopping to do."

"Oooh!" Oleander's eyes lit up like fireworks. Clutching Crowley's arm, she asked, "Can I come, too? Pleeeeease?"

Crowley chuckled, unhooking Oleander's claw from his sleeve. "Sorry, 'fraid not. You can't see your present ahead of time. Besides, you'd tell angel what we got him anyway." Oleander didn't even bother protesting; nobody would believe it, not even Aziraphale. Sighing, she bit into the baguette again. "Spoilsport." 

As if concurring with her, a deep rumbling rolled across the sky. A cold wind passed through like a speeding train, almost sending Crowley over the edge, and the first few raindrops began to fall. Oleander grinned, holding out her claw to collect the drops. But Aziraphale wasn't having it. As the rain quickly intensified, he summoned forth an umbrella and, opening it, held it over the three of them. Crowley shirked out from under it, despite the cold beginning to gnaw at him in more ways than one.

 _Don't fall apart,_ he begged, _Keep it together. Don't crumble. You're stronger than this._ Swallowing harder than he needed to, Crowley slapped on a smile and hoped that it didn't look as queasy as it felt. "Well, I'd better get going. Those presents aren't going to buy themselves."

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale protested, "Christmas is two weeks away! You have plenty of time to buy something. Please, let's go home."

"Yeah." Oleander nodded. "It's not worth getting sick over."

Speaking of sick, Crowley could feel his coffee struggling to climb up his throat. Forcing it down, he kept smiling. "No, really. I want to."

Aziraphale sighed. "Alright," he caved, "just come for dinner, please?" He leaned forward and pecked Crowley's lips. 

"Of course." Crowley agreed, even though he doubted he'd eat much anyway.

Oleander stood before him, holding her claws out. As Crowley watched, hellfire bloomed within those slender fingers, those curved nails. Twisting and growing, beating in tune to a living heart. The Poison Demon nurtured that flame, whispering into it, before her black eyes met his yellow ones. Smiling softly, she reached out and pressed her claws against his chest. Crowley felt the hellfire weave itself within the fabrics of his clothes, encasing itself within them. Warmth lay against his covered skin, chasing the storm's chilly breaths away. And with them, Crowley's fears. 

Crowley felt his throat clog up. Tears prickled the edges of his eyes. His smile was wobbly, but genuine. "Thanks." Certain that he would cry if he stayed any longer, the demon turned on his heel and headed back for the city. His body warm, his heart full.

***

The drizzle became an unrelenting downpour by the time Aziraphale and Oleander had made it back into the bookshop. Both of them were so drenched, one would think they'd jumped into a pool fully clothed. Once they were inside, a quick miracle dried them both. But it did nothing for the chill deep in their bones. With the flip of a switch, the warm lights flooded the shop, chasing away the storm's dark fingers. The windows, by comparison, looked like dark gray rectangles. Oleander's audibly chattering teeth caught Aziraphale's attention. As he hung up his coat, as well as Oleander's, the angel looked down at the Poison Demon's feet. They were almost blue with cold. "Oh, my dear. Why do you _insist_ on going around barefoot?"

"Why not?" Oleander asked. "It's not like I'm going to die of frostbite or whatever." All the same, she rubbed her claws up and down her biceps. "Tea?"

"Yes, please." Aziraphale adjusted his bow-tie in the mirror. "You can heat up the scones if you like, dear, while I'll put the kettle on."

Oleander saluted him. "Roger that." As she collected two saucers and mugs from the cupboard, she asked, "What do you think Crowley's going to get us?"

"Oh, I'm not sure." Aziraphale smiled at the mention of his lover. "But knowing Crowley, it'll be nothing if not thoughtful, and he will attempt to shrug off our gratitude." He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Hesitating, he eyed Oleander as she brought the china to the table. At this point, he had grown quite fond of the female demon. She had become a permenant bed companion of his and Crowley (although they never did anything together aside from sleep and, on occasion, play board games), and he'd come to enjoy feeling her lie between him and his lover at night. It warmed him to know that she trusted them both enough to want to spend her nights with them. Beyond that, while he still harbored a dose of fear towards her, Aziraphale loved her surprisingly sweet nature and curious mind. In many ways, she reminded him of himself during his first few centuries on Earth. That was why, as he held his secret close, he heard himself saying, "Oleander, dear, could I trust you to keep something between us?"

Oleander looked up from folding two napkins on the table. "Depends." She replied. "Are you cheating on Crowley?"

"What?" Aziraphale was appalled by the notion. "No! I would never!"

"Good." Oleander answered, visibly relieved. "Because I doubt I'd forgive you for that, just as I'd never forgive Crowley if he cheated on you."

"Ah," Aziraphale considered her words, "well, you can be certain, my dear, that I would never betray Crowley, either romantically or otherwise. I love him. I love him more than I've ever loved anything."

"Except for crepes, right?" Oleander winked at him. The two shared a chuckle as she went to retrieve a pair of spoons. "No, seriously, what's up? I'll keep the secret."

Aziraphale's hand fumbled, like nervous, pale little mammals. "Well...do you know exactly, how, Crowley got discorporated?"

Oleander watched him, her proverbial ears perking. "I know he got hit by a car, but that's it."

The kettle began to whistle. Aziraphale turned the knob, killing the fire, and filled a teapot with boiling-hot water. As he selected the tea, he spoke shyly. Quietly. "Well...then I have a story for you."

He told it. Nervously. Without omitting any details. Not even lingering on how he felt when he said no to the man he loved; his feelings, his reasons, did not matter in this case. What mattered were the consequences. Oleander listened, never interrupting, as she sipped her tea and wrapped her claws around her mug to keep warm. Her expression was devoid of anger, of judgment, and this helped move the recounting along. At last, Aziraphale sat before her, his story exposed like an open wound. He fiddled with the bowl of sugar cubes, having already put five in his cup. "It was my fault his body died that night."

"No, it-"

"It was." Aziraphale closed his eyes. Inhaled shakily. "I drove him away, and my actions resulted in him going to Hell. I will never forgive myself for it...and I'm an angel. I have forgiven rapists and murderers during my time here on Earth."

Oleander reached across the table and took his hand. Her claw, warm from the tea, almost drove him to tears. That simple gesture, saying so much that words could not express. He looked down at their joined hands, blinking through tears, and wove their fingers together. "But that is not what I wanted you to conceal, for the time being." He took a deep breath. "I want to propose to Crowley on Christmas Day."

"Aww!" Oleander remarked, putting her free claw on her chest. "That's so sweet!"

Aziraphale grinned. "You think?"

"I know." Oleander assured him. "But the date is just a detail. You're going to have to really go all out."

"Of course, and I intend to!" The angel insisted. "But that is why I wanted to ask that you keep this between us."

Oleander mimed zipping her lip and throwing away the key. Aziraphale beamed. "Thank you, my dear." He took their joined hands and kissed the back of Oleander's, making her all but glow with joy. 

That was when it hit them. Full-force, like a speeding truck. Magic so much like Aziraphale's, yet somehow so much more oppressive, like a thick cloud of smoke cutting off air. Oleander's face lost what little color it had, while Aziraphale leaped to his feet. He scrambled to the nearest window just as the front door's buzzer went off. On and on it buzzed, as though the person had fallen asleep against it. When Aziraphale looked outside, his blood turned to ice. There, standing in the rain yet completely dry, were two beings he had hoped never to see again. "Oh, Lord, no." He spun around, locking eyes with Oleander. "Hide, now!" He quickly performed a miracle to annul Oleander's demonic presence, if only for a bit. "Go on!"

Oleander lingered, claws clenching and unclenching. "But-"

"Please!" Aziraphale whispered harshly. "I can't have them try to harm you, too. Please. Go."

The Poison Demon stared at him, then at the front door, then broke into a run up the stairs. It wasn't until her footsteps had faded that Aziraphale opened the door. "Uriel. Sandalphon." He greeted them with a tight smile. "What a surprise."

"Hello, Aziraphale." Sandalphone shouldered his way inside, almost knocking Aziraphale down. Uriel, too, did little to sidestep the fellow angel on her way in. Both their faces were blank, their eyes cold. Her hands folded behind her, Uriel said, "Let's cut right to the chase, shall we? Where is she?"

 _Oh, Lord._ Aziraphale tried to appear clueless. "Who?"

"Don't try to hide it, traitor." Sandalphon snapped. "We have evidence you've been socializing with yet another demon." He shook his head in revulsion. "Isn't one enough, or are you that much an unrepentant sinner?"

Aziraphale was barely breathing. He stood before his former colleagues, no less terrified of them now than he had been before Armageddon't. And he hated himself for it. But thousands of years had trained him to hide his emotions behind a well-stitched veil of courtesy. "I...have been indeed spending time with another demon." What was the point in denying it? They knew anyway. "But she is not here. Surely, you must sense that much."

Uriel sniffed the air. "Yes, the demon's stench is not here." She eyed him coolly. "But it was, just a minute ago."

"She left." Aziraphale lied. "Had to...go back Downstairs." He regretted his words as soon as he said them. What if an angel went Downstairs and learn that Oleander was, in fact, a deserter? He very well may have doomed her! Trying to hide his increasing panic, he said, "Anyway, I'm touched that you still care enough to look in on my personal life, but-"

"We don't give a damn about you." Uriel interrupted. "We never have."

That comment stung more than it should have. Aziraphale had always suspected that his colleagues laughed at him behind his back, and whenever he'd been forced to return to Heaven, they would all treat him as one would a child: they would give him his orders, never take him seriously, and chide him if he behaved against the status quo. But he'd always thought that, deep down, they had cared about him as one of God's creations. Trying to conceal his pain, he asked, "Then why, pray, are you here? As I said, if you were hoping to speak to her directly, I'm afraid you're too late."

"We want to know what you're planning." Sandalphon replied, showing off the golden cross inserted between his front teeth. "Your two demons are most likely consorting, hatching some sort of plot against us, and we are here to find out what that plot is."

"Plot?" Aziraphale demanded. "There is no plot. Why-"

A stone-like fist to his gut set his body aflame. Wheezing, he slid to the floor. Black spots danced in his eyes. Towering over him, Sandalphon cracked his knuckles. "Wrong answer." He whispered. Then, a well-aimed kick to Aziraphale's side cracked his ribs. The angel cried out, tears stinging his eyes. He lay there, curled up on the floor like a worn, as blow upon blow landed upon him. Bruising his skin. Cracking his bones. Wild and vicious, like a rain of stones. But precise, like a surgeon's cutting hand. He cradled his head in his hands as the pain grew and burned, washing over him like lava. Waiting for it to stop.

Then, suddenly, it all went dark. At the same time, a hissing noise echoed across the bookshop, as though they finally found themselves in the maw of a giant, angry snake. Aziraphale dared to look as plants began to swarm the shop. Sandalphon and Uriel, too, watched with wide eyes as plants grew at the blink of an eye, spreading across every surface. Like green paint being spilled onto a photograph. They coated the floor. They put out the lights. They climbed up the shelves. They hung from the ceiling. A thousand different scents melded together, untamed and husky and sweet and bitter.

"What is this?" Uriel turned to Aziraphale, who sat up with a pained hiss. "Make it stop!"

"I'm not doing anything!" Aziraphale protested.

Sandalphon growled and cocked his fist back to punch Aziraphale. Too bad a leafy plant reached out and wrapped itself around his arm. The angel cried out as a hot red rash spread across his hand.

There was a low rumbling that came not from the storm, and the plants on the floor parted to make way for their mistress. She rose like Venus from the sea, only far, far deadlier. Aziraphale caught sight of her, and his fear took wing. In that moment Oleander was not the sweet person he'd grown close to, but a dark spirit of impressive brutality. The indigo irises he'd spotted by chance were now glowing as they focused on the intruders. Her hair rippled even though there was no wind. Vines and leaves were curled around her limbs and waist, sprouting toxic flowers and berries. The veins on her face, hands, and neck were as black as tar, pumping poison instead of blood. When she spoke, her voice was colder than liquid nitrogen.

" _ **Leave. My. Home.**_ "

Uriel looked terrified, but Sandalphon tried to look unaffected. Even though, up close, one could see the nervous sweat breaking out across his brow. "Unholy demon, go back to Hell where you belong."

"I belong **here**." Oleander snarled. As she moved towards them, the plants parted to make a path for her. "You, angels, do not. Walk away now, or you'll wish you had."

Uriel, despite her terror, scoffed. "We will, you wretched creature. Right after you tell us what you're planning."

Oleander bared her teeth. "I plan to do what you so-called 'perfect' beings can't do: live my own life." Eyes narrowing, she smirked. Edged closer. "You know? I feel sorry for you lot. At the very least, demons can remain confident that our King, Satan, will talk to us when necessary. He, at least, shows up when he needs to."

Uriel's eye twitched. "Be silent, beast."

Oleander ignored her, edging even closer. Looking the two from head to toe. "But you angels, you spend eternity up in your sterile husk of a kingdom, running things in the perpetual hope that God will show up, pat you all on the head, and create more wonderful things for you all to enjoy." She smiled coldly. "But I don't think you can be that stupid. I think, deep down, you know the truth."

"Shut up." Sandalphon hissed.

Oleander did not. "God created us all, and then grew bored and left." Her grin widened. "You are alone."

Sandalphon tore his fist free of the plants - causing Oleander to scream - and tried to tackle her. But Oleander opened her mouth, and vines shot out. Coiled around Sandalphon, picked him up as though he weighed nothing, and sent him flying out the window. Uriel reached for her side and, before Aziraphale could scream out a warning, splashed holy water onto Oleander. She let out an unearthly scream as it ate away at her flesh, exposing the bones and muscles on her shoulder. Far from discourage her, it only triggered another attack. Oleander stomped her foot, and the plants on the floor began to climb up Uriel's legs. The angel fought and screamed, tore at the plants with her bare hands, but this only made them grow faster. Soon, they covered her completely like an Egyptian mummy. She writhed and wriggled, her screams muffled. Oleander thrust her hand out. Whatever the plants did, they made Uriel's screams turn to tortured gurgles.

"Oleander, stop!" Aziraphale begged.

Oleander looked at him, eyes wild. "They hurt you!" She protested, then gestured to her steaming shoulder. "And look at me!"

"I - I am, dear," Aziraphale was crying now, both from physical and mental anguish, "but please, spare them! You're better than that! Don't be the monster they think you are. Please!"

Oleander panted, lower lip trembling. Looking less like a demon and more like a scared child. With a wail, she waved her hand. The plants released Uriel, who was now bleeding from every orifice she had. The angel stumbled away on unsteady feet, breathing shakily. Moving towards the door. "This isn't over," she warned them. "This isn't over by a long shot!"

Aziraphale had no doubts. 

From the broken window, Oleander saw the two angels, battered and broken and bleeding, turn to white light and return to the sky. She watched the empty street corner for a minute, then blinked back to reality. Feeling shame, she held out both hands. The plants retreated, uncoiling themselves from the lamps - filling the shop with some much-coveted light - and tore away from the ceiling. They slithered between the floorboards and crawled into the walls' cracks, out of sight but not out of mind. In a moment, it was as if nothing had happened. Even the broken window was fixed with the snap of her fingers. The angel had their immortality to thank. Any mortal exposed to so many poisonous plants all at once would have died on the spot.  
She looked down at herself, and groaned. The flesh on her shoulder, and part of her chest, was gone. The muscle and tissue underneath was charred black. It made her sick.

"Let...let me help." Aziraphale spoke through clenched teeth, one hand reaching for her.

Oleander would have laughed if she weren't so close to tears. Aziraphale was wounded and shocked, and yet his first impulse was to heal her instead of himself. He truly was a being of love. More of an angel than either of those two intruders could ever hope to be. Oleander knelt before him. The angel sat up slightly, groaning at the effort, and examined the wound. His blue eyes met her black ones, which had since stopped glowing. "This may hurt a little."

Oleander nodded. 

Aziraphale held his hand over her shoulder, and a small miracle unfolded. Oleander groaned and dropped her head, twitching and panting as the angel's divine power coursed over her wound. The pain was worse than anything she'd ever felt, and then some. It felt like someone were cutting deep into her, over and over again, with a white-hot knife and then pouring over the wound with vile, human chemicals. At last, the angel said, "Here we go, all better." Blinking back tears, Oleander raised her gaze. The wound was now a large, discolored patch of skin that was leathery to the touch. But it no longer hurt, and that was all that mattered. "I'm sorry about the scar." Aziraphale kissed it. "But I'm afraid that, since you were hurt by holy water, this is the best that I can do."  
Oleander nodded. "It's okay. Just another one to add to the collection."

Aziraphale's eyes briefly landed on the scar across Oleander's neck. His expression softened, and he covered her hand in his. "I'm...I'm sorry, Oleander."

The Poison Demon stared at him. " _You're_ sorry? For what?"

"When you emerged from your hiding place, to defend me..." Aziraphale was ashamed to admit it, but wanted to be honest. "I...was afraid of you. And for that I'm sorry."

Oleander gave him a sympathetic look. "Sometimes, I'm afraid of myself." She looked down at him. "Let me do something good, though."

Ten minutes later saw Aziraphale upstairs, lying in bed, his wounds healed but his body still drained. Bruises decorated his chest and sides, black against his pale flesh. He was struggling to stay awake, to take in all that had happened, when Oleander emerged with a small bowl in her hands. She smiled softly at him as she sat beside him. "Black bryony. For your bruises." Aziraphale looked down at the red poultice and gave its maker a shaky nod. Oleander began to administrate it, her touch light and delicate. Immediately, Aziraphale felt soothing relief wash over him. He sighed, closing his eyes. For a few minutes, there was only a comfortable silence, made even deeper by the raging storm outside. Oleander finished applying the poultice and, with shaking claws, hugged herself. "I...I'm going back to Hell."

Aziraphale's eyes shot open. He looked up at her in shock. "What? Why?"

"None of this wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been here." Oleander protested. "If I go back-"

"It wouldn't change anything." Aziraphale cupped Oleander's cheek, which was wet with the tears she'd shed while preparing the poultice. "Dear girl, Heaven and Hell have wanted this War for thousands of years. Either side would use any excuse to trigger it, at last. Especially after Crowley and I stopped the one that they were promised." He tried to smile despite the yawning abyss of fear growing within him. "But...it's going to be alright. We stopped the War before. We'll do it again."

"Do you really think so?" Oleander asked.

"I know so." Aziraphale's smile became more genuine. "Because now, we've got you on our side, too."

Oleander stared at him, touched by his words, before lying down beside him. Taking care to avoid his wounds, she curled up on Aziraphale's side. Resting her head on his beating heart. Its rhythm soothed her. "Yes." She said. "I'll defend you with everything I've got."

Aziraphale ran his hand through her dark brown hair. "I know, dear. I know."

Outside, the storm rumbled on.


	8. Holly Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oleander's aggression towards Uriel and Sandalphon unintentionally bought Earth more time. But sooner or later, the War will come. And it very well be even bloodier and more disasterous than the first one.
> 
> Meanwhile, Crowley at last decides to start seeing a therapist. The results are less than helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments and kudos: they keep these chapters coming!

All of Heaven was in an uproar.

Gabriel had fully expected Sandalphon and Uriel to come back from Earth with all the information they needed, give or take a filthy demon captive. Instead, the two angels had returned bruised and bloody, too worked up to hand out any useful data. As much as he wanted to press them, the Archangel had little choice but to leave them be for the moment.

As the two angels were escorted to the medical wing, he folded his arms in dismay. Unwilling to show how stunned he was by this turn of events. He retreated to his office for a few hours. That place always soothed him: spacious, with high ceilings and clean, white walls. No unnecessary furniture, no sins of greed: just his desk, the mail chute in the corner, and a pair of chairs in front of his desk. Behind him was a wide window through which he could admire the kingdom of God, and feel confident in his place in it. With the heavenly light warming his back, Gabriel disappeared into his paperwork. It calmed him, putting everything in its proper place. Making everything as it should be. Then, at long last, his desk was cleared and his duties were completed.

Even so, Gabriel felt on edge. After struggling with it for a minute or so, he at last summoned Michael. She appeared a moment later, giving him a polite bow. "Yes?"

"How are our two wounded soldiers?" Gabriel asked, spinning the silver globe on his desk.

"Not great." Michael replied honestly. "Sandalphon took quite a blow to the head, and Uriel..." She shook her head with the closest thing to compassion an angel could feel. "She's had quite a day."

"When do you think they'll be able to fight?" Gabriel inquired, crossing his legs.

Michael considered before answering. "Maybe...a month? That should be enough for them to mentally recover."

"A month?" Gabriel grimaced. "That's a bit longer than I'd have liked."

"Same goes for me." Michael assured him. "But perhaps this unfortunate event is a blessing in disguise."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Michael nodded. "If one miserable little demon got the better of two of our best, what's to say the rest of Hell hasn't truly gotten stronger these past few millennia?"

Gabriel snorted. "Michael, are you beginning to doubt our divine superiority over those filthy little creatures?"

"No, of course not." Michael smiled. "Our cause is righteous, and we will win. Of this, I have no doubt. I am simply asking a question." She arched a perfectly-manicured eyebrow. "Don't you think, Gabriel, that we should be as prepared as possible? Be certain that our chances of success are absolute?"

Gabriel slowly nodded, seeing the sense in his fellow angel's words. "Okay, I see what you're saying." He straightened. "Fine. We'll wait until Sandalphon and Uriel recover. We can't let Hell knowing that one of theirs knocked out two of ours. And we're going to need holy water. A lot of it." As an afterthought, he added, "Be sure to get greater data on human warfare: they seem to be quite good at eliminating each other, maybe we should take a page out of their book."

Michael nodded. "I'll talk to the others immediately."

As he found himself alone in the office once more, Gabriel felt better. Much better, in fact. Yes, it was a bit of a bummer that the War would have to wait another month. But they would use that time to their advantage. And humanity, for once, could be of true use to them. 

By re-teaching them how to kill.

***

_Crowley struggled against his chains, cursing through the gag in his mouth. This only seemed to amuse the demons more. They laughed and jeered, ribbing each other and pointing at the traitor. How pathetic he looked, naked and strapped to a wooden table! Crowley snarled at them, tugging at his bonds even though he knew it was useless. A shadow fell over him. His torturer of the day was Xaphan, an inventive demon who'd come up with the idea to burn Heaven down before the 'glorious revolution'. Of course, the fire hadn't been nearly enough to destroy the celestial kingdom, but it had revealed angels' weakness to hellfire. The demon had gotten a huge promotion for that, and had since come up with a host of weapons with which angels could be killed._

_But, when need be, Xaphan was very good at inflicting harm on his own kind, too._

_"Creatures of Hell!" Xaphan declared. "I have been tasked with torturing the traitor, and I will not disappoint you! Neither will I disappoint..." he paused for effect, "...the hellhounds!"_

_Crowley jerked back while the denizens of Hell applauded, roaring their approval. Golden serpent's eyes shifted as ferocious barking echoed across the chamber. The kennelmaster gave Crowley an ugly smile as he held onto the dogs' leashes with ease. The hounds in question were huge, the size of ponies, with matted fur and fangs that curled out of shiny black lips. Their eyes glowed red, and their claws could cut through just about anything. Crowley stared at them with huge eyes, unable to stop his trembling._

_Xaphan casually pet the nearest hellhound, which tried to bite his hand off in response. Giving no indication that this had bothered him, the inventive demon asked the kennelmaster, "So, are they hungry?"_

_"Hellhounds are always hungry," the kennelmaster simpered, "but I haven't fed them in seven days. They're ravenous!"_

_The audience whooped and cheered as Xaphan nodded appreciatively. "Then we must feed them!" He approached Crowley, who tried to hiss at him through the gag. Ignoring him completely, Xaphan held up a scalpel. The crowd cried out for blood, tired of being teased._

_Xaphan grinned and turned to Crowley, the scalpel facing down. "Hold still..."_

_Crowley's screams echoed through the moldy corridors of Hell, bouncing off the cracked ceilings. His back arched, the chains went taut, as his skin was sown off, one long, bleeding strip at a time. Xaphan went about it casually, as though peeling an apple, and held up each chunk of flesh for his audience to applaude. Then, he'd toss the meat to the hellhounds, who fought over it with savage hunger._

_On and on it went, exposing the red muscles and delicate veins underneath. Blood gushed onto the tiled floor, drying as it darkened._

_At last, even an immortal's stamina could not keep up. The last thing Crowley saw was the hellhounds gobbling up pieces of his chest._

***

"Crowley? Crowley!"

The demon's eyes flew open to darkness streaked with light. For a horrible second he thought he was still in Hell, his skin being fed to the dogs. But when that second passed, his senses kicked in, and his brain recognized the light as coming from the open window, from the street lamps below. He was not in pain. He wasn't bleeding, or flayed. He was lying in bed, the sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs. Aziraphale and Oleander were hovering over him, their eyes wide with concern. Aziraphale's soft hands were cupping Crowley's cheeks, thumbs brushing away hot tears. Oleander was hugging him behind, her long hair spilling onto his shoulders.

Soft. Warm. Safe. Home.

As the minutes ticked by, Crowley's breathing returned to normal. The stiff, defensive stance in his shoulders leaked away, and he stopped sweating. Taking a deep breath, he asked, "What happened?"

"You...you started screaming, my love." Aziraphale couldn't hide how scared he'd been, or still was. "Just like that, out of nowhere. We tried to coax you awake, but it took quite a few tries." The angel paused, fearing that he'd be crossing the line that Crowley had drawn all those weeks ago. "What...did you dream about, dear?"

Crowley shivered, looking away. "My time in Hell, what else?"

"Oh, darling..." Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss on Crowley's lips. Tasting his lover's tears. "I...can only imagine how awful it was."

Crowley shivered, prompting Oleander to hold him tighter. She nuzzled into the side of his neck, filling his nose with the scent of wild herbs. "It's okay," she whispered to him. "It's over." The demon smiled faintly, one hand shakily rising to rest on Oleander's arm. The other one cupped his angel's face. "I'm okay, guys. Really."

Aziraphale sighed even as he placed his hand over Crowley's. "I...I know, dear." He was trying to hide it, but he didn't believe him. Deep down, Crowley could not blame him. In the six weeks of peace they'd had before Heaven came a-knocking, Crowley had done his best to hide his little meltdowns. He'd lost count of the panic attacks, the vomiting, the flashbacks, he'd had in secret, always making sure that neither his angel nor his fellow demon witnessed them. But every once in a while, Crowley had slipped up. Gotten swept up by his emotions in spite of his efforts, even though Oleander and Aziraphale were nearby. Night-terrors were the worst. This was his seventh since his return to Earth. And when he was sleeping, there was nothing he could do to pretend. Cover up his pain and smile and insist that nothing was wrong.

Crowley had been so certain that he could beat this on his own. So confident. But as time had passed, he'd found his resolve weakening like morning mist.

And when he'd come home the other day, presents in hand, to hear about Sandalphon and Uriel's unwanted visit, he'd come close to breaking down again. Imagined the War starting up again, for real this time, and everything that they'd worked for burning away. He'd imagined Hell, and what they would do him if they won. He'd imagined what they would do to Aziraphale, or Oleander. Aziraphale, being an angel, would not be spared. But Hell could make it linger, torture Crowley through his lover, until Crowley's mind was as broken as his body. And Oleander? She had no chance. Hell might not torture her as much, or as long, as Aziraphale and Crowley; but they would make sure she didn't make it out alive.

Now those thoughts were returning, and so were the tears. Aziraphale kissed them away, his lips like butterfly wings. "It's alright, dear."

"No," Crowley shook his head, sighing, "it's not. The War..."

Oleander tightened her hold on him. "We're on our own side. We'll make it."

Crowley couldn't help smile thinly at that. "Sounds like something I'd say."

"You did say it, dear." Aziraphale reminded him, smiling slightly before growing more serious. He clapped Crowley's free hand in both of his own. "Right now, I'm not thinking about the War, or Heaven, or Hell. All I care about is you, and how you feel."

Crowley sighed, wondering how he'd gotten so lucky. "I'll be fine. Really. I mean, aside from the world potentially ending...again." Aziraphale squeezed his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing every knuckle. Oleander twisted her head, inadvertently spilling more long hair over Crowley's shoulders. "Well, it's too bad you're feeling better," she remarked, humor in her voice, "or I'd have suggested the three of us go to the roof to see the sunrise. It'll happen soon."

The angel and the demon turned around and saw, true to their friend's words, that the sky had gone from black to dark blue. The sun was coming. A new day was dawning, bright and cold. Counting down to Christmas. Counting down to the War.

The three exchanged looks.

***

Less than ten minutes later saw all three of them sitting on the roof of the bookshop, their wings spread out behind them and their pajamas rippling in the breeze. A picnic basket was nestled between them, and Crowley was wrapped in a blanket to keep the cold - and his memories - far away. Two thermos were brought along: black coffee for the men and hot cocoa for Oleander. Opening the basket, Aziraphale peered at the scones inside. Blueberry, raspberry, and chocolate. He selected the two biggest ones and handed them to the demons. Crowley took his with a nod of thanks, took a small nibble, and let the rest sit on his lap. Oleander, on the other hand, tore into hers as though she hadn't eaten in months. Soon, her face was speckled with raspberry jam and she was grinning like a clown. "Delicious." She stated, mostly to nudge Crowley into finishing his. The demon, however, did nothing.  
Chuckling, Aziraphale took one as well. "Yes, these came out jolly well for a first try." Biting into it, and filling his mouth with blueberry, he pecked his lover on the cheek. Crowley, wanting none of that, turned his face and kissed the angel full on the lips. Pulling away, he smirked. "You taste like blueberries, angel."

"And now, you do, too." Aziraphale smiled, resting his head on Crowley's thin shoulder.

The horizon before them paled to robin egg's blue. Beyond that were streaks of pink and coral. Oleander watched it unfold, eyes glittering with amazement. A quick gander showed her that no one else was doing what they were, and it left her puzzled. How can anyone, mortal or immortal, take such beauty for granted? She drank her hot cocoa and watched the sky. Wondering, with a ripple of anxiety, how many more sunrises there would be before the War. As many as there were left before Christmas: eleven? Or a bit more? Or, worse, less?

The sun peeked out at long last, glimmering like a polished gold coin. Its rays warmed the immortals, spilling onto the world, as the last stars winked out of sight. Oleander closed her eyes with a sigh. Aziraphale, in turn, smiled at the sight, a sense of peace filling his heart. He was still afraid, yes, very much so. But in a moment like this, where he could marvel at such a simple yet amazing miracle, Aziraphale could only feel tranquility. And, deeper, down, gratitude for being able to share it with two such important figures in his life.   
In Crowley, however, were much more complicated avenues of thought. Ones that kept going back and forth, back and forth, between his convictions and the sad reality. He stared out as the sunrise, watching the shadows pool at the bottom of the buildings, and realized something: his fears were no better than those shadows. Slinking about, encasing and harmful, yet chased away by the inevitable arrival of dawn. It should be simple to expel them. But he wasn't using the sun. He was using a flimsy torch, at best.

Crowley inhaled, allowing the cold, clean air to fill his lungs. And took the plunge. "I...want to go to therapy."

There. He'd said it. The pot was uncovered, the lid gone forever.

Both Aziraphale and Oleander turned to him in surprise, convinced they'd misheard him.

Still looking at the rising sun, Crowley continued. "I...thought I could do this on my own. But...but I can't." His voice cracked. "I don't want to feel like this anymore. I'm sick of it. I want to enjoy moments like this." He gestured at the sun. "Really enjoy them. So..." He looked first at Aziraphale, then at Oleander. "I'm ready."

Oleander's face, painted gold by the light, broke out into the widest, happiest smile that Crowley had ever seen. Responding only with an elated laugh, she wrapped her arms around Crowley's neck and hugged him tight. Aziraphale quickly joined in, taking both demons in his soft arms and burying his neck between Crowley's shoulder blades. Crowley was trapped on both sides by warm bodies and gentle support, helpless to do anything except bask in their embrace. Choking back his tears, he did just that, surrendering himself to their affection.  
It was all he needed to know that he'd made the right decision.

***

Three days later, the couch in Dr. Roebuck's waiting room was occupied by a trio of oddballs: a white-haired, middled-aged man with a bow-tie and vest, a copper-haired man in all black, splayed over the furniture like wet laundry put out to dry, and a thirty-year-old woman in comically oversized clothing peering into a magazine like an archaeologist examining unearthed pottery. Every so often, Oleander nudged a rather nervous Crowley and held up the magazine, her questions never ending. Crowley found it both endearing and unnerving.  
"Why does this body cream cost so much?" was Oleander's latest question.  
Crowley sighed. "Because it's a brand. Brands cost more."  
"Ah." Oleander waited a beat before asking, "What's a brand?"  
Crowley leaned his head back with a groan. 

Aziraphale, who had not let go of Crowley's hand since they'd left the bookshop, gave it a squeeze. "Would you like something from the cafè just across the street? I'll be back before Dr. Roebuck calls us."

"Uh...yeah, actually. An espresso." Crowley nodded. "Thanks, angel."

"Always." Aziraphale pecked Crowley's lips as he rose, reluctantly letting go of his lover's hand. He peered over at Oleander. "Anything for you, dear?"

"Uhh..." Oleander chewed her lip. "An espresso, too?"

"Very good." Aziraphale stroked her cheek softly before leaving the office, wallet in hand. Once the angel was out of sight, Oleander nudged Crowley again. "Hey, bro?"

"Mm?"

"What's an espresso?"

Crowley sighed.

He'd just finished explaining to Oleander the history of the coffee bean and its uses when Aziraphale reentered the office, holding a paper bag between his teeth and carefully carrying two tiny, paper cups: one in each hand. "Ah, here we go." Crowley kissed his angel in thanks before holding up his beverage to Oleander. "This, see, is an espresso. Strong stuff."

Oleander nodded. "Can't wait. On my mark?"

"Why not?" Crowley smirked.

"One...two...three!" The two demons dunked their coffees simultaneously. Crowley swallowed his, smiling in satisfaction, while Oleander spat hers out in disgust. Aziraphale jumped, narrowly dodging the projectile of brown liquid. As Crowley chuckled, Oleander groaned as she wiped her mouth. "I've invented poisons that taste better than this! How can you willingly drink this stuff?"

Crowley winked. "Acquired taste." With a wave of his hand, the stain disappeared. 

Aziraphale opened his paper bag, where a Danish awaited. "Also, dear," he told Oleander, "for the future, perhaps you can kindly refrain from spitting things out? It's frowned upon in polite society."

"Oh." Oleander blushed. "Sorry."

"No, no, it's okay." Aziraphale reached across Crowley and patted Oleander's knee. "You're learning."

Oleander smiled nervously. "Thanks."

In that moment, the office door opened to reveal a man with salt-and-pepper hair, glasses, and a sweater-vest. "Mr. Anthony J. Crowley?"

The three immortals stood up as one. Crowley approached the man, shaking his hand. "'Ello, doctor."

"Pleased to meet you." Dr. Roebuck greeted, his eyes trailing behind him. "And you are...Mr. Fell? We talked on the phone?"

"Yes, indeed." Aziraphale smiled in his usual friendly fashion. He shook the doctor's hand. "How do you do?" He shook Oleander's claw as well, which he looked at with a hint of fear. Smiling tightly, he turned to Crowley. "Shall we?"

"But what about us?" Oleander asked, bringing all eyes on her.

"Uh, this kind of therapy's not for a group. Just one person." Crowley explained, pointng at himself. "But don't worry, I'll be fine."

But twenty minutes later, Aziraphale and Oleander found themselves strangled by Crowley's magic, stained midnight-black by terror. Wasting no time they tore open the door, finding a shuddering Crowley hunched over the wastebasket while Dr. Roebuck tuttered from his spot behind the desk.  
"The fuck did you say to him?!" Oleander demanded, immediately kneeling by her fellow demon's side. She rubbed his back, feeling every vertebrae through his shirt. Crowley lurched again, emptying his stomach, sounding miserable the entire time. "Here," Oleander quickly reached into her pocket and held out its content to him. "Chew on this."  
Crowley blinked at the crushed yellow flowers with bleary eyes. "What is it?" His question reeked of vomit.  
"Evening primrose," Oleander replied, "it'll help you feel better."  
Crowley shook his head, gently pushing her claw away, as he sat up. "Angel?"

"Yes, my love?" Aziraphale's voice was tighter than either demon had ever heard it.

"I'd like to leave." Crowley muttered, rising with Oleander's help. "I need a drink. Now." Oleander leaned her head against his as she guided him out of the office.

Dr. Roebuck shook his head. "Your partner is far too sensitive for his own good, Mr. Fell. I merely meant to understand what, exactly, had traumatized him so much. But he reacted by stinking up my office."

Aziraphale's face was a stiff mask, the eyes like blue lasers. "I told you that he'd experienced trauma at the hands of his former colleagues."

"Yes, I recall." Dr. Roebuck removed his glasses. "But I needed details. Copious details. So I-"

"-Pushed him beyond his psychological limit," Aziraphale finished for him, his voice curt, "even though you could probably tell you were upsetting him."

Dr. Roebuck shrugged. "I'm sorry, I thought you wanted me to cure your partner, not coddle him."

Oleander slowly turned her head, her irises glowing.

Aziraphale's lips became a thin line, his eyes cold as glaciers. "Right. I think we've said just about everything that we need to. Goodbye, Dr. Roeback." He closed the door behind him. A moment later, there was a now-familiar hissing sound of plants rapidly growing, alongside the doctor's screams. Aziraphale looked back at the door with mild alarm, while Oleander looked dead ahead as she helped Crowley out of the waiting room.

For next week, the trio went through every therapist in London, to less than encouraging results.

Therapist number two walked in on Crowley and Aziraphale kissing and immediately stated that homosexuality was the root of Crowley's problems. When he strongly recommended conversion therapy, Crowley momentarily took on his snake form to stun the man into fainting.

Therapist number three made jokes when Crowley told him about some of his experiences...albeit through a filter. "They fed your skin to the dogs?" The man crowed. "Well, I bet they liked it better than dogfood!" Aziraphale called the board of directors and had the man fired.

The third therapist kept texting on her phone while Crowley tried to talk, and then outright answered a WhatsApp call. Crowley made her phone hiss, pop, and spit sparks, just for fun. It was the only joy he found in the entire session.

Therapist number four responded to Crowley's edited recounting of what happened by bluntly saying, "You did it to yourself." Oleander switched out the blueberries in his slice of pie with belladonna berries, which sent him straight to the hospital. Even Aziraphale could not feel sorry for him.

As for Crowley, he felt like he'd been made a fool of. It had taken a lot for him to admit that he needed help. To be rewarded with these repeated failures, his wounds being ripped open and his traumas being minimized, made him wonder if he should have simply stayed quiet.

At last, with Christmas only four days away, the trio found themselves standing before a gold plaque, their faces reflected within it like a funhouse mirror. A name was stamped on it. Dr. Susan Wu. A supposed specialist for victims of trauma and sufferers of PTSD. Crowley looked first at Aziraphale, then at Oleander. Trembled beneath his thick wool coat. "I don't want to do this anymore."  
Aziraphale slipped his hand in the demon's. "Just one more, darling. And if it doesn't work, we'll go home and never discuss it again. Okay?"  
"I...alright." Crowley swallowed audibly. "I brought this on myself, after all. Might as well see it through."  
Oleander reached into her pocket and held out a little cloth bag to him. "Want a sniff?"  
Crowley frowned at it. "What is it, drugs?"  
Oleander gave him a look. "You wish. No. It's herbs. They can help soothe you."  
Crowley contemplated for a moment before at last sighing and rolling his shoulder. "Eh, why the Heaven not?" He took the bag from his 'sister' and pressed it against his nose, inhaling deeply. The wild scents raced into his system, smoothing out his nerves, and putting out the fires. As he handed the little pouch back to his fellow demon, Crowley muttered, "Wish me luck."

And with that, he walked through the door. 

Dr. Susan Wu was a very pretty woman of Chinese descent that looked a few years older than Oleander's vessel. There were a few silver hairs in her black ponytail, and her smile was open and friendly. Yet Crowley slouched in the armchair, barely looking at her.

Seemingly used to this, Dr. Wu let him sit in silence for a while until, casually, she asked him if he would like some tea. Crowley shrugged. Dr. Wu took this as a yes, and was soon bringing in a tray with two mugs and a small platter of biscuits. Crowley sullenly took his mug, but when he got a closer look at the biscuits, he cracked a smile.

Dr. Wu raised her eyebrows slightly. "I take it you like the biscuits?"

"Ah, I don't, really." Crowley answered. "Not that into sweets. But my partner is. He buys this kind a lot." He took a bite out of one. Not because he was hungry, or was in the mood for biscuits, but because the taste reminded him of happier times.

Dr. Wu offered him a smile. "Well, if you don't like sweets that much, what foods do you like?"

Crowley rolled his skinny shoulders. "I prefer drinking, to be honest. Wine. Brandy. Whiskey. Gin. I'll drink it all."

"I see." Dr. Wu nodded, no hint of judgment in her tone. "And your sister? What foods does she enjoy? Your partner mentioned her." She added when she saw Crowley's puzzled expression. Crowley considered his words, playing with the teabag, before speaking slowly, carefully. "She, uh...she's still learning what she likes." His thumb traced the rim of his mug. "We...we worked together. And where we worked, there were certain...restrictions. And they had harsh contracts. Very harsh. So, when I left...they didn't like that."

Dr. Wu nodded again, her dark eyes full of compassion. "Why did you work in such a place if you did not like it?"

Crowley would have laughed if he could. "Family business." He loathed referring to the creatures of Hell as his 'family'. But what else could he compare them to, besides former colleagues that he'd never cared for but had been forced to work with anyway?   
Dr. Wu seemed to understand his meaning, and merely nodded in response. She didn't write down what he said, look at her phone, or anything of the sort. They were just...talking.

Crowley sighed, setting his mug down. "Dr. Wu, I'd like to be frank with you."

Dr. Wu spread her hands out. "Please do."

"In one week, I've been through four therapists. You're number five. Honestly, even though I wanted to get into bloody therapy in the first place, I'm starting to think this was all a very bad idea. You seem like a nice lady, but I don't know if you can help me or not. To be blunt, I'm already broken enough without overeducated lug-heads dissecting me in order to take notes and make money." Crowley crossed his arms. "So. What, exactly, would you be offering me if I decided to hire you?"

Dr. Wu sipped her tea. Taking her time to answer. When she did, her voice was calm and amicable. "Well, I can't perform miracles."

Crowley snorted.

Dr. Wu continued. "But, if you decide to hire me, my goal would be to help you overcome your trauma one step at a time, at pace and in a way that you feel comfortable with. It is a path we would take together, with your loved ones providing support along the way. It won't happen overnight, and there will be moments when you will feel overwhelmed and perhaps consider quitting. But my job would be to help steer this ship even in those moments, and help you come out the other side without these memories and experiences dragging you down." She straightened. "Does that answer satisfy you, Mr. Crowley?"

Crowley considered her, her words, her aura, and what it would mean if he went through with this plan. He nodded. "Yes, it does."

***

That night, the trio dined at the Ritz to celebrate. Aziraphale put away a five-course meal and still had room for pudding afterward. Oleander could not hope to keep up, although she tasted everything with great enthusiam. Ironically, it seemed that the Poison Demon was not a fan of salads. "I ate nothing but that for centuries!" She protested when the angel and demon ribbed her for it. "You'd get bored, too!" Aziraphale, of course, quelled her annoyance with kind words and the rest of his tiramisu, both of which were happily accepted. Crowley managed a small appetizer, but not much else. All the same, he felt better than he had in a long time. Lighter. More positive. Sitting there, in one of his favorite spots in the world, with his lover and (he had to admit it) friend by his side, ready to support him, Crowley felt like everything would be alright. Celestial War and potential revived Doomsday notwithstanding.

His phone buzzed, seizing his attention. When he saw the name there, his eyes widened. "I don't believe it." He whispered.

Aziraphale was instantly all ears. "What is it, darling?"

Crowley let out a guffaw as he opened the incoming email, then held it up for his dinner companions to see. "It's Adam bloody Young! He wrote to me!"

Oleader sucked on her spoon. "The former AntiChrist?"

"The very same." Aziraphale confirmed, putting on his glasses to see the screen better. He smiled. "Oh, how charming! He invited us to Christmas dinner with his family!"

Oleander perked up. "For real?" When the angel nodded, still beaming with delight, she all but squeaked with excitement. "That's amazing! My first meal with humans!" She was grinning so widely that Crowley worried that her facial muscles might cramp up. Something occured to her, and she asked, "But wait: how did he have Crowley's contact information?"

"Because I gave it to him," Aziraphale confirmed, "as well as my own. I figured the boy should be able to contact us, should the need ever arise."

"Of course you did." Oleander gave the angel a playful eyeroll. "So, shall we go?"

Crowley threw up his hands. "Why not? If we're going to celebrate Christmas, we might as well do it with humans who've been celebrating it all their lives."

Oleander bounced in her seat. "Oooh, just imagine! Me, dining with humans! Who'd have thought it?" In her excitement, she didn't realize that holly berries - appropriate, given the holiday theme - had started growing on the table, bright red berries staining the white table cloth as the wood beneath came back to life. That is, until it became impossible to miss. She grinned sheepishly.

Crowley gave her a look. "I wouldn't have, that's for sure."


	9. Poison Oak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three immortals spend their first Christmas Eve together. Oleander learns about humans' bifercating capability for great kindness and cruelty, seeing both effects up close. Aziraphale opens up to Crowley, reassuring him that their side can win, while also telling him what he's always wanted to say. Presents are exchanged, and bonds are strengthened.
> 
> But when they go to Tadfield the next day, intending to join the Youngs for Christmas dinner, Oleander is taken down an unexpected, and unwanted, trip down Memory Lane. One that is speckled with poisonous spores, bloodshed, and revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! I'm so happy you're enjoying my story, and hope that you will continue to enjoy it all the way up to the end. Please let me know what you think!

When people imagine Christmas in London, they envision a Charles Dickens-esque spectacle dusted with pure white snow, illuminated with warm lampposts, and populated by carolers and people roasting chestnuts over an open fire. For the most part, that was what Soho now looked like...except that the lampposts' light wasn't always warm, and there was hail instead of snow. But it was nothing than an extra-strength umbrella and a thick coat couldn't fix. As the three immortals huddled against each other, shielded by said umbrella, Crowley spoke through the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his mouth. "Where the Heaven is this homeless shelter?"

"Just around the corner, my love." Aziraphale assured him. "Then, we'll get you nice and warm inside, alright?"

"I'm not cold!" Crowley protested through chattering teeth. "I was just...wondering, is all."

Oleander, who had by now permenantly situated herself between them whenever they walked, rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, sure." Her sarcastic remark earned her a light jab in the ribs. Worth it! Giggling, she tightened the collar of her new, royal-purple coat closer to her throat. (She had soon decided that purple was her favorite color, and half her wardrobe had been magically changed to reflect that.) Turning to the angel, she asked, "What, exactly, are we going to do once we get to this 'shelter', Zira?"  
Aziraphale patted her gloved claw with his. "I've done it many times in the past, dear, but I'm so pleased we're all doing it together! To put it simply, we are going to a place that offers the homeless food and shelter, where we will be given special vests. Once that's taken care of, and the police know that we mean no harm, we will go about London to feed those not at the shelter." Surveying the sky, he added, "It should only take a few hours, so we shall still make good time for dinner tonight."  
This news pleased Oleander, who had insisted that she wanted to cook for her two friends. But something still stuck out in her mind, like a fallen branch in a river. "Why are there homeless people?" She looked around, examining the tall buildings around them. "Aren't there enough houses for people?"

"Oh, bother," Crowley muttered, looking away, "every man for himself..."

Oleander frowned at her 'brother's reaction when she felt Aziraphale's soft arm drape across her shoulders, bringing her into a one-armed hug. "Dearest...I'm afraid it's not that simple." And with that, he described homelessness to the best of his ability, keeping the terminology simple and the explanation vast for Oleander. The Poison Demon listened with increasing horror at the angel's verbal report on lack of affordable housing, tighter mortgage regulations and higher costs for first-time buyers, mental health issues, substance abuse, and discharge from prison. Aziraphale explained each of these terms to her, with eyes full of sorrow, as they at last arrived at their destination. Oleander was trembling, and not from the cold. "But...what about those in power?" She asked in a small voice. "Why don't they help? They have the resources!"  
"Easy," Crowley replied, "it's because they either don't care, or are too incompetent to make a significant impact."  
"Crowley!" Aziraphale scolded.  
"What?" Crowley asked, palms out. "It's true!"  
The angel looked down at the Poison Demon, who looked so distraught that he almost wished they hadn't brought her along. But she wanted to live among humans, and that meant learning about the less supernatural ills that plagued them. All the same, the angel faced her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Dear?"  
"What?" Oleander croaked, not looking up from her boots.

Aziraphale cupped her chin and lifted her face, forcing those black eyes to meet his blue ones. The sorrow within them, the shock, made Aziraphale think back on his time in Heaven, before becoming a Principality and being assigned to guard Eden's Eastern Gate. He'd been taught that demons were evil, that they were incapable of feeling anything but, well, wickedness. But Crowley had showed him otherwise; and now, so did Oleander. The angel tried to smile at her. "Oleander...I know it's a lot to take in, and I know that it seems-"  
"Hopeless. It seems hopeless. And soulless. And greedy. And sloppy. And just all-around messed up." Oleander interrupted, anger mixing with the horror. "How can humans blame us for every little thing that goes wrong when they so callously make each other miserable?" She shook her head. "If a demon had come up with this system, they'd have been offered a spot in the Dark Council!"  
Crowley shuddered at the mention of them.

The angel, however, refused to give up. "Please, listen." He bent down so that he and Oleander were eye to eye. "You know what you must do when you see things like this? Misery? Pain? Suffering?"

Oleander shook her head.

Aziraphale smiled. "Look for the people helping. There are always people who are helping. And, if you can, join them." He reached out and tucked some stray hair behind Oleander's ear. "Which is what we are here to do. Alright?"

Oleander stared at him, eyes as round and trusting as a seal's. For a few heartbeats, she was silent. Then, at last, she gave a feeble nod and a quiet, "Okay."

Aziraphale sighed with relief and kissed the top of her head. "Good," he said, taking Crowley's hand, "now, shall we?"

Crowley smiled tenderly at his lover. "Lead the way, angel."

***

Thus, three supernatural entities, two of whom belonged to a species often made synonymous with 'evil person', spent the afternoon of Christmas Eve pouring coffee and serving heated TV dinners to the homeless. Wearing their bright orange vests over their clothes, the trio moved with a group of human volunteers through the hailing streets of London. In dark alleys. Storage units. In ratty tents. Oleander watched, captivated as well as horrified, as humans spent their limited time on Earth helping complete strangers. What paradoxical creatures, human beings. Capable of incredible kindness as well as incredible cruelty.

Aziraphale went about the job as though he'd been doing it all his life...although the statement closer to the truth was that he'd been doing it for several lifetimes. He smiled at everyone he offered food and coffee to. He gave them tiny miracles that chased away the cold, eased their chronic pains, and allowed them sweeter sleep. Crowley, too, went about from person to person, offering them aid as easily as he breathed. Especially the kids. He gave them toys that he pulled out from his pockets through magic, making them laugh and clap. He offered them sweets as well as sandwiches. He healed a couple of children trying to fight off the flu. Another boy had been lying on a filthy blanket, his foot swollen from an infected cut, and Crowley healed it in no time flat. Oleander watched him and wondered how on Earth Head Office could had ever been duped into believing he was one of Hell's most black-hearted sinners. She wasn't the only one who noticed Crowley's actions towards the little ones. After Crowley healed the boy's cut, he was tapped on the shoulder by Aziraphale, who gave him a kiss that was so pure and loving that, if they had been in a movie, a violin would have started playing. When they pulled back, Aziraphale kept staring lovingly into his partner's eyes, while Crowley grinned as though he'd been struck with laughing gas.

Oleander went through the motions of handing the plastic-wrapped sandwiches to the poor, sometimes leaving them beside those fast asleep, and handing out coffee. A few homeless people jumped at the sight of her eyes, with their permenantly dilated pupils, but they were happy enough to take the nourishment she offered. It made her feel good, knowing that she'd helped fill their bellies and warm their bodies. And yet, she felt...somewhat disconnected to it, in a sense, as though she were watching herself through a screen.  
It almost felt like she was...pretending. Putting on an act. She _wasn't_. She _wanted_ to do this. And yet, she couldn't shake off the feeling that she was simply performing for an unseen audience.

But try to shake it off she did, and at last, when the last sandwich had been given away, the last drop of coffee poured, and the last destination reached, Oleander felt...more whole. More of a person.

The orange vests were shrugged off and returned to the shelter. Compliments, salutes, and wishes of "Merry Christmas!" were exchanged within the group that had, for a handful of hours, worked together. Oleander felt strangely emotional as the crowd dispersed, feeling the ties binding them together break like threads. But when Crowley and Aziraphale approached her, hand in hand, she found that she couldn't be unhappy for long. Even with that gnawing uncertainty deep within her.

Acting purely out of instinct, Oleander ran towards them and, without a hint of warning, trapped them both into a tight hug. It caught both the angel and the demon off-guard, but after a few uncertan seconds, they returned the embrace.  
When at last the trio broke apart, Crowley removed his shades, kept his eyes closed as he cleaned the dark glass, and then slipped them back on his nose. "So, want to head back? I believe _someone_ wanted to cook us dinner for Christmas Eve."  
Aziraphale smiled, stroking Crowley's cheek. "An excellent idea, my love." 

The couple walked with their elbows linked together while Oleander moved alongside them, taking in everything with huge eyes. She had noticed the increasing quantity of tinsel, wreaths, and Santa Clauses over the past several weeks, as well as the explosion of store discounts and shopping. Everyone passing by was carrying something, be it a package or a bag. Many of them looked happy, excited. But some simply seemed...indifferent, as if they were simply ticking a duty from their to-do list. It saddened Oleander, the idea that a holiday meant to celebrate love, togetherness, and family could ever become just another day. Its colors bleached away, its magic evaporated.  
The more she saw, the more she learned. 

She smelled, too. Perfume. Gas. Air freshener. Food being cooked in restaurants. And, of course, chestnuts. They could barely walk ten steps before coming across a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts for two pence. As if reading her thoughts, or most likely feeling peckish, Aziraphale bought three bags of steaming, slightly-blackened nuts: one for each of them. He tucked into his with little restraint, even if more than one burned his tongue. Crowley rolled his eyes and ate a couple, chewing slowly. Following his first official session with Dr. Wu, which had occured the day after he hired her, Crowley had started making more of an effort to eat. He'd never had a massive one to begin with, and he still preferred alcohol to actual food. But over the last few days, both his lover and his 'sister' had noticed Crowley eating at least a little bit at every meal. While they hadn't said anything, Crowley could tell that they were both relieved. Especially Aziraphale. It made Crowley feel...positive, of all things, and made him wonder what would happen once the holidays were over, and the real work could begin.

Assuming they all survived, or evaded, the War.

 _We'll cross that bridge when we reach it,_ Crowley reminded himself. _But this is our first Christmas. I'm not going to let Heaven and Hell spoil it._

What _did_ spoil his mood, if only a little, was the sudden outburst of carolers. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that he, his lover, and his 'sister' had walked right past them. But it was impossible not to notice them now, as they belted out the thinly-veiled command of: _"Oh, bring us some figgy pudding! Oh, bring us some figgy pudding!"_  
Aziraphale clapped at them, delighted, while Crowley wished he could literally put frogs in their throats. Well, he could, but his angel would never let him hear the end of it.  
Oleander tugged on his sleeve. "What's figgy pudding?"  
Crowley groaned. "Not sure, never tried it myself."  
"But," Aziraphale grinned in an almost cheeky fashion, "it must be rather good if they won't leave until they get some!"  
Oleander's face suddenly brightened, and Crowley immediately knew what she was thinking. "No, no, no. Please, no."  
"Oh, come on!" Oleander pleaded. "They must be selling it somewhere!"  
"NO!"

But Aziraphale's giddy intervention saw to it that they soon had three plastic bowls of figgy pudding in their hands. Like the chestnuts, Aziraphale devoured his with little qualms. Oleander and Crowley, however, took a single spoonful, shared a look, and then spat into the nearest wastebasket. Oleander shuddered. "How can something made with figs be so gross?"  
"Search me." Crowley shrugged, still hawking and spitting into the bin.  
Meanwhile, Aziraphale had already demolished his portion. He noticed the two untouched portions of figgy pudding and raised his brows at the demons. "Would you mind if I...?"  
Crowley handed his over, barely hiding his grimace. "Whatever makes my angel happy."  
Completely oblivious to his lover's disgust, Aziraphale happily accepted the bowl. "Oh, thank you, my love!" He began lapping it up with fresh enthusiasm, and Oleander, for all her affection towards the angel, could not bare to watch. Instead, she began to consider what she would cook for dinner that night. She'd already gathered the ingredients. The recipe that had inspired her, likewise, was safe in the apron, neatly cut out from a housekeeping magazine. For a moment, she feared the results. But then she shrugged off her worries. Humans cooked every day without the advantage of being immortal, or possessing powers. How hard could it be?

***

As the kitchen filled with sounds and scents, along with Oleander's occasional curses and hissing, Aziraphale and Crowley occupied the bookshop's salon. Sipping tea (or red wine for Crowley) and cuddling on the couch.

Near the window was a small but sturdy poison oak: a contribution from Oleander, of course, when they had failed to find a Christmas tree suited to their liking. They had come home, and she had, without a word, poured dirt on the floorboards, planted a seed, and placed both hands on the soil. The tree had sprouted forth seconds later, bursting with life. "It's fine," she'd assured them, "just don't eat the leaves, or the acorns." They had spent the rest of the evening decorating the tree with newly-bought decorations, some of which had come from antique shops. Aziraphale had been so taken by the glass stars, the porcelain angels, that he hadn't batted an eye at the price-tags. Crowley, meanwhile, had insisted on converting a few of said porcelain angels into demons, and no amount of protesting could change his mind. The presents sat beneath the tree, as colorful and shiny as marbles.

Aziraphale looked down at his lover, who was draped across him like a lizard on a rock. Crowley had his thin arm draped around Aziraphale's middle, his head resting on his angel's collarbone. His hair gleamed in the soft lights, and there was a serene look on that handsome face. Serpentine eyes looked out into the abyss, soft as molten golden. Love made Aziraphale's heart swell against his chest, fit to bursting. He set his teacup down and began to gently run his hand up and down his lover's back. "Penny for your thoughts, my love?"  
"Eh," Crowley mumbled, "I'm not really thinking about anything, I guess. Except, in the back of my mind..." He hesitated. "What they're planning."  
Aziraphale didn't need to ask who Crowley was talking about. A tiny sliver of anxiety twisted within him. He quashed it for now. "It's like what you've been saying, my dear. We're on our own side, and we can take them on."  
Crowley glanced up at his angel, those yellow eyes filled with mild amusement. "Oh, so you believe that too, now?"

The angel stilled, his heart skipping a beat. This was the closest they had ever come to discussing that night, the night Crowley was dragged back to Hell. Time may have passed, and steps had been taken, but the wound still felt sensitive, with only the thinnest scabs protecting it. And yet, Aziraphale decided to chance it. He had never told Crowley how much he'd regretted his actions that night, mostly out of terror that bringing it up at all would cause the demon even more anguish. But now, on Christmas Eve, with his lover in his arms, Aziraphale felt brave. He took his lover's hand and placed it over his heart. Looking deeply into his eyes, Aziraphale stroked the side of Crowley's face. Even now, he was aware of how close he'd come to losing him, and how terrified that had left him. "I don't believe it." Aziraphale whispered. "I _know_ it."  
Crowley's eyes widened.

Aziraphale gently smiled, not letting go of Crowley's hand. "Crowley, my love, I've made many mistakes in my life - which is to be expected, given its length. I used to blindly believe in God's Great Plan, even when it caused me pain to watch its effects. Sodom and Gomorrah razed to the ground. The Tower of Babel, its architects punished by no longer being able to understand each other. Egypt, the plagues. The Great Flood. And, for a while, Armageddon. I didn't want it to happen, just as I hadn't wanted any of those other events to happen. But I'd honestly believed that God knew what was best, and that I simply had to trust in Her. I still fear, adore, and trust Her, of course. What kind of angel would I be if I didn't? But Earth is the only place I've ever felt at home in, more so than Heaven ever did. And part of the reason it felt like home was because of you."

Crowley's breath caught in his throat, but he gave no reply. He was staring at the angel with wide, searching eyes. His angular face filled with awe and hope, like a man walking into the sun after years in darkness. Aziraphale had denied him this light. No longer. He continued, encouraged. "Even before I fell in love with you, Crowley, I cared for you for centuries. Ever since the first time we talked on the wall of the Garden, if you can believe it. Because you were the first person to simply talk to me, rather than give me orders or belittle me like the other angels always did. And after that, when we kept running into each other, I felt happy.  
I tried to keep my distance, tried to do as I was told and nothing else. But you challenged me, forced me to consider things with my own head rather than just go along with whatever Heaven wanted. You saw injustice and called it for what it was; something I never had the strength to do. And that night during the Blitz, when you saved my books of prophecy, you left that burned-out church with my heart. But I still feared telling you how I felt. I couldn't risk putting you in danger. And when the End Times came and went...I should have felt free. But I didn't, not entirely. I was still afraid. But, my love?" He rested his forehead against Crowley's. Seeing, and feeling, nothing but him. "We are on our own side, and it is the strongest one. I know it. So, whatever happens...we will be alright."

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and lips parted. Then, without warning, he lunged forward, grabbed Aziraphale's face, and pulled him into a passionate kiss. Aziraphale instantly closed his eyes, his soft arms wrapping themselves around Crowley's slender waist. The demon ravaged his lips, setting the rest of his body on fire, kissing him as though the world were ending. Aziraphale kissed back with the same amount of passion, his spirit glowing every color of the rainbow.  
They probably could have gone like that for hours, perhaps even days, with a lot less clothes in the way. But the sound of approaching footsteps made gold and blue eyes fly open. They pulled away, their bodies still tangled together, just in time to see Oleander standing before them, her clothes and face splattered with chocolate sauce and her hair even more tangled than usual. She looked as though she'd just won a wrestling match with a grizzly bear: victorious, but still tired and on edge. "Dinner's ready!" She announced, blowing a stray lock out of her face.

The angel and demon shared a glance before turning back to their housemate.

They had barely gotten seated when Oleander emerged from the kitchen, a large ceramic bowl hugged against her chest. She ladled a portion into the demon's plate first, and then the angel's. Aziraphale simpered at her. "Oleander, dear, this looks amazing!"

"Salad!" Oleander grinned nervously. "With a twist!"

"Yes," Crowley held up a chunk between his forefinger and thumb. "The twist being that it's carrot and banana salad."

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale gently batted Crowley's hand. 

Oleander reappeared, locking tongs and platter in hand.

"What's this?" Crowley was almost afraid to ask.

"Chocolate chicken." Using the locking tongs, she placed what appeared to be a chicken breast dripping with chocolate syrup onto Crowley's plate. It landed there with a _splat_. Crowley stared down at his plate, barely believing what he was seeing, before shooting Aziraphale a desperate look. Aziraphale's own expression was helpless as Oleander served him the same thing, _splat_ and all. She served herself last before sitting down, her entire body visibly buzzing with anticipation.  
Oh, bother. No turning back now. Inhaling shakily, and preparing for another abrupt discorporation, Crowley cut into the chicken - which at the very least was cooked - and tasted a small piece. It sat on his tongue, but his throat closed. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to swallow it. Needing assistance, he reached for his water. Aziraphale did the same. Oleander, meanwhile, was watching them like a very anxious, eager-to-please hawk. "Do you like it?"  
With a tone like that, Crowley couldn't have been honest even if she'd torn her own arm off and served it on a plate. "Ummm...yeah, it's...something." At last, he swallowed. The chocolate syrup, sickeningly sweet, left a trail down his throat.  
Aziraphale nodded vigorously. "Yes, it's lovely!" The fact that he was able to say it with a straight face made Crowley want to suggest an acting career for his lover.  
Oleander looked so happy that Crowley simultaneously regretted his lie and was thankful for it. "Good!" She beamed. "I'll cook the day after tomorrow, too. I got some more ideas."

Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look. A desperate look usually reserved for enemies of the crown locked in the Tower of London.

***

After dinner, which was consumed with copious amounts of bread that had been intended for the ducks, the three exchanged presents for the first time. 

Oleander receieved a baggy shirt with the words 'devil in disguise', complete with red little horns, from Crowley and a book entitled _'A Little History of the World'_ from Aziraphale. 

Crowley got a snake-shaped pendant for his keyring from Oleander and a black wool sweater from Aziraphale that, it turned out, Aziraphale had made himself.

Aziraphale was given a first edition of _Dante's Inferno_ by Crowly and a bow-tie printed with little pieces of sushi by Oleander.

Laughs were had. Comments were exchanged. Hugs were given, as were plenty of kisses. Then, after Oleander pleaded and begged, they all settled on the couch to watch a holiday special on television. Aziraphale wanted _It's A Wonderful Life_. Crowley, _Bad Santa_. Oleander, having never seen a Christmas movie, blindly cast her vote for _Christmas Story_. In the end, unable to come to a consensus, they watched all three films, back to back, eggnog close-by.  
By the time they crashed into bed, drowsy and heads full of Christmas imagery, it was nearly one in the morning. 

As sleep began to take over, gently pressing down on their eyelids, Oleander spoke up. "G-guys?"

Aziraphale, who was lying on his belly like a beached whale, murmured, "Yes?"

Crowley let out a little groan.

"I just wanted to say..." Oleander blinked back tears. "Th-thank you."

This got both males' attention. They managed to fight off exhaustion long enough to raise their heads. Oleander continued. "You two are the first people to ever give me anything. Anything at all. And..." She smiled, suddenly sheepish. "I love you." She looked from one to the other. "Both of you." 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who was beginning to blink back tears. When he felt wetness on his own face, the demon quickly wiped it dry. But he could not wipe his feelings away with such ease. So, he chose not to. Meeting his angel's eyes, and knowing that, not for the first time, they were thinking the same thing, Crowley reached out and pulled Oleander into a hug. Aziraphale joined in, nestling against Oleander's hair while his arms looped around her, his hand touching Crowley's. "We love you too." Oleander wasn't sure who whispered it, but she found that it didn't matter. They'd both said it already with this gesture alone.  
And that was how they drifted to sleep.

***

The next morning was Christmas. That alone seemed to be a miracle. The first Christmas after the End Times. The first Christmas two supernatural entities spent together, as a couple, and the first holiday that a third entity ever got to celebrate.  
That was why, from the moment the trio awakened in a tender embrace, the day seemed imbue with magic. The kind that was usually reserved for fairy tales. The kind that seemed to protect a day the same way glass protects a photo, shielding it from harm even as it aged.

Similarly, as the three immortals got into the Bentley, the horizon beyond it seemed...different. Softer. Untouched. Protected. It wasn't anything that could be pointed out, like the color of a wall or smoke coming out of a chimney, but it was there, all around. Even speeding at ninety-five miles per hour, and looking at London in blurred streaks, Oleander saw it. In all her centuries of life, she had never witnessed such a thing. It was almost enough to conceal her anxiety.

Almost. 

"Somebody's awfully quiet back there." Crowley chided, his hands on the wheel. Aziraphale, despite clinging for dear life to the dashboard, gave the Poison Demon a concerned look.

Oleander tried to shake it off. "I'm okay."

Crowley met her gaze in the rearview mirror. "You do remember I'm a demon too, right? That I can sense fibbing, just like you can?"

Oleander blinked in realization of her error. "Damn it!"

Crowley cackled. "Gotcha. Now, what's up?"

Oleander fumbled with her blouse, eyes downcast. 

Aziraphale, despite his face slowly becoming a lovely shade of green, turned in his seat. "My dear?"

Oleander persisted for another moment, silent, before sighing. "I...I'm really scared." Encouraged by the two men not laughing at her, she continued. "It's been nearly three hundred years since I last spent time with humans. Like, really spent time, not just talked with for a few moments." She couldn't stifle a whimper. "What if I do something wrong?"

Crowley, to Aziraphale's horror, twisted around and spoke to Oleander as he continued to drive. "It's going to be fine, sis. Really, Adam's bright for his age, and his parents are none the wiser. You've just got to be a bit careful of what you say, is all. And you've been doing well in that department so far."

"I know," Oleander mumbled, "but what if we start talking about...anything modern? I've only been on Earth for a couple of months! I can't compare to the souls that have lived here since birth. You two are fine, you've been on Earth for as long as humanity. But me?" She laughed bitterly. "Up until last week, I thought Don Quixote was about a Donkey named 'Ho Tay'! How can I be expected to speak to humans for longer than a minute and not be unmasked?" Now that she had spoken her fears out loud, she realized how large they were. Almost ready to swallow her up. Oleander let out another whimper, louder this time, as she tucked her head between her knees, steadying her breathing. A gentle hand began to rub her back, but it did little to yank her out of the downward spiral.  
"Oleander? Sis, look at me!"

With some hesitation, Oleander obeyed. Aziraphale, who'd been the one rubbing her back, smiled at her as he took her claw. Crowley was once again looking away from the road. Even with his shades on, his gaze was one of compassion. "It's going to be alright," he assured her. "We'll be there with you every step of the way." This, admittedly, made her feel a bit better. "Besides, you can see this as training."  
Oleander frowned. "Training?"  
"Yes." Crowley smirked as he narrowly avoided crashing the Bentley into a bus. "Yeah! Your first time dining with humans. Let's see if you can blend in...and if we're worth anything as teachers."

"Training..." Oleander repeated. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and clapped her hands. The sound was as loud as a gunshot. "Alright, I'm ready! Bring it!"

***

The last time Aziraphale and Crowley had been in Tadfield, they had gone straight for the airbase and had barely given the rest of the village a glance. Granted, they were there to literally save the world and convince the AntiChrist that he could in fact control his own destiny, and change it to how he saw fit. Quite a mission indeed, and understandably all-consuming. Now that their only mission was to have dinner with said AntiChrist, who'd made himself a human and his earthly father into his biological one, the demon and the angel had the chance to stop and look around. Even Crowley had slowed to a walking pace, much to Aziraphale's relief. It was quite a quaint little place, and they were both relieved that it had not been the starting point to Armageddon. In every window were small brick buildings and well-paved roads, with plenty of trees and family-owned shops. Aziraphale eyed the local pastry shop, making a mental note to stop by there at some point, while Crowley smirked and waved at an old man walking his dog. Upon recognizing him, the old man began to sputter and point.

At first, as Oleander watched the idyllic town pass by, she felt more or less at ease. But the closer she looked, the more convinced she became that she had been here before. The trees were centuries old, and she could have sworn that she'd planted some of them herself. The houses, too, while remodeled, rung a bell. Her mouth began to go dry as she looked on, seeing the forest beyond the small houses. The name 'Tadfield' was new to her, but then again, she'd never bothered with the names of human settlements. Her fear grew. Suddenly, something caught her eye. Without a word of warning, Oleander opened the car door and climbed out, her bare feet touching the tar road.  
"What in the-? Oleander!" Crowley called out, but it was already too late. The Poison Demon was running as quickly as her legs could go, her long hair flying behind her like a flag. Crowley quickly killed the engine, caring not that he'd essentially parked in the middle of a cul-de-sac. He and Aziraphale bolted after their friend, with the latter huffing like a toy train. 

They ran down the road, in an arching path, until they stood before a building. Oleander stood a few feet ahead, her back to them. Aziraphale stepped closer, heaving and panting. "Oleander? What is it, my dear?" The Poison Demon didn't answer. When he got a look at her face, he saw the expression of someone who'd seen a ghost. He eyed her, then the building. It was a church, no different in design from the others in Tadfield yet significantly diverse in its condition. Namely, it had fallen in disrepair over the centuries. The roof had caved in. The wood that made up the front doors were pockmarked with rot. Moss and ivy crept along the walls. The front yard was choked with weeds. There was a plaque in front of it: relatively modern and bearing the cross . Aziraphale walked up to it and read what was written.

_On this spot, on a holy Sunday in 1732,  
Eighty-five sons and daughters of Tadfield lost their lives.  
They were locked inside by an unknown killer, alongside an incredibly deadly spore that made them choke on their own blood.  
An incredibly toxic, airborne mushroom that had never seen before, nor seen since.  
This church, the very one they died in, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the lives lost,  
And as a reminder of the unholy violence that tore the village apart._

Aziraphale's eyes were the size of hard-boiled eggs. He turned to Oleander, who was weeping silent tears. He gestured to the church. "Did you do this?"  
The Poison Demon did not answer.  
"Did you?" Aziraphale asked with a bit more force.  
Oleander met his eyes. Her own were haunted. "Do you know what those 'sons and daughters of Tadfield' did?" Without waiting for an answer, she said, "The day before, they killed all the women I'd taken under my wing. All the women who had come to me, the 'witch of the wood', to learn about herbs. They wanted to become healers, midwives. And what was their reward? They were accused of witchcraft, long after the witch trials were over, and they were all sentenced to death. Stoned. Burned. Hanged. All in two days. And then their bodies were thrown into a ditch like trash." Her voice sounded like it needed oil. 

"That doesn't justify what you did!" Aziraphale replied. "You murdered a group of people who only believed they were doing God's will!"

"God?" Oleander gave a bitter laugh. "When did God start caring about anything other than Her own plans?"

Aziraphale clasped his hands over his mouth.

Oleander went on, kicking it into gear. "How many people died because they were 'sinners'? Because they believed in the 'wrong god'?" The tears were coming faster now, in contrast to her heated tone. "Those women believed in God, too, you know! And they cried and begged God to save them while their friends and neighbors beat them, burned them, drowned them! But did God show them mercy? Of course not!" She wiped her eyes. "And those people...they went back home when it was all over, had dinner, and went to bed like they'd just spent the day farming! None of them felt a speck of guilt for what they did! And you know what happened to them when my spores burst their blood vessels?" She let out a cackle. "Hell got eighty-five fresh souls!"

Crowley shivered. He'd been in Hell that day. He remembered the small flood of souls, and had wondered what had happened topsoil. At the time, he'd assumed some kind of disease, or parasite. But no. It had been her. The very demon he'd come to care for, whom he'd come to realize was not to blame for his time at Hell's hands. 

Aziraphale had gone white as a phantom. He looked ready to pass out. But underneath his shock, he understood. He could see Oleander's pain, even after all these centuries. He could see that the event had scarred her, and while he still thought that it had been a crime, he could not wholly condemn her, either. Especially today of all days. Especially in light of the time they'd spent together, and the confession she'd whispered last night. Those three sweet words, that tender embrace shared by three, seemed so much farther away now.  
He took a step forward, arms outstretched. Ready to tell her that it was okay, that he still cared for her. That he, too, had come to act on his own volition rather than blindly go along with a divine plan.

Crowley, too, prepared to hold Oleander close and assure her that they had had it coming. That most demons had killed far, far more humans than she had, albeit indirectly, and for less excusable reasons. He wanted to tell her that, more importantly, she could put that awful event behind her and move on, prove that she wasn't the same demon who'd sent eighty-five people to their graves. 

But neither angel nor demon got the chance. 

Oleander buried her face in her claws and fled. Ran out of the paved road and onto the grass. Past the trees. Into the same woods where, almost three hundred years ago, she had taught a group of eager young women the art of herbology.


	10. Machineel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find Oleander deep into the woods, right at the spot where her pupils were buried. They comfort her with the knowledge that they still care about her, and that she does not have to let the past haunt her. 
> 
> The three of them finally make it to the Young residence, where dinner ensues. There, amidst Christmas lights and mistletoe, Aziraphale asks Crowley one of the most important questions that a person can ask another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used towards the end is 'Everything' by Michael Buble.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

Of all the things Crowley and Aziraphale had expected to do on Christmas Day, running around the forest screaming Oleander's name had not been one of them.

And yet, here they were. Following the traces left behind by the Poison Demon's magic, the couple yelled out her name until their voices grew hoarse. They ran deeper and deeper into the woods, leaving Tadfield behind, until only trees existed around them. They felt Oleander's magic grow stronger as they neared the source. Tasted the grief, the desperation, within it. 

"Oh, dear, what do we do?!" Aziraphale cried, resting his hands on Crowley's chest. "What do we say?"

Crowley took his angel's hands in his own. Looking into those gorgeous blue eyes, and seeing his own trepidation reflecting within them. "It's alright, angel. We'll just talk to her, that's all we've got to do. Just talk." He tried to sound more confident than he felt. But he feared driving Oleander away, unintentionally twisting the knife in her open wounds.

Aziraphale griped, blinking back tears. "It's my fault! I shouldn't have said what I said!"

"Hey, angel." Crowley let go of his lover's hands, instead cupping his soft, gentle face. "It's okay. You didn't mean any harm. You never mean any harm. You're the sweetest, gentlest soul I know."

A tear ran down Aziraphale's cheek, wiped away by Crowley's thumb. "Crowley..."

"Oleander knows it, too. It's not your fault. She's just upset." Crowley pressed his forehead against Aziraphale's. "But we'll find her, and everything's going to be alright. Okay?"

"Yes." Aziraphale nodded shakily. "Yes, of course, love." He pressed his lips against Crowley's. Chaste, but full of love and gratitude. The two entities held onto each other for a moment longer before pulling apart, still hand-in-hand, as they went back to following the source. Scanning the green, tree-dominated horizon for their friend. Above their heads, clouds scattered across the sky like startled sheep. The cold wind nipped at their fingers and faces. Crowley's memories tried to poke through, but he snuffed them under his heel.

At last, after what felt like hours of searching, Aziraphale cried out, "There, I see her!" He pointed frantically towards west. Crowley spun around, eyes wide. There, about a hundred meters away, was a dark smudge against the green backdrop. Crowley miracled an energy boost for himself and his lover, and they tore across the grass like cheetahs. In seconds, they stood before Oleander, who was hugging her knees to her chest and looking down. Her hair twisted in the wind, her face invisible. The couple stared at her, then at each other. Making a silent decision as one, they sat on the grass beside her. Not so close to stifle her personal space, but close enough to show that they were there. Oleander gave no reaction to their coming closer, or their sitting down. She simply remained immobile, hiding her face in her knees. 

The three of them sat there for a long time, with only the rustling trees around them breaking the silence. 

Then, by chance, Crowley noticed Oleander's feet. Bare as always, even in late December in English weather. They were bloody, with a collection of small cuts coating the pale surface. She must have run frantically to get here, throwing caution to the wind. Without thinking twice about it, Crowley sent a small miracle Oleander's way. The blood was re-absorbed through the skin, and the cuts sealed themselves up. 

This unintentionally got Oleander to raise her head. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, and tear-tracks streaked across her cheeks. She stared first at Crowley, then at Aziraphale. Sighing, she ran a hand through her dark brown hair. "You guys should have just gone to the Youngs."

"Oh, we couldn't do that." Aziraphale replied, shocked that she would even suggest it.

"No, you should've." Oleander replied. "I can't fit in anyway. I would have just given us all away."

"The Youngs are accepting. That's what you get when you have the former AntiChrist as your son." Crowley leaned forward, peering at Oleander from above his glasses. "Look, if you're worried about how we feel about what you told us..."

"Nothing to be worried about." Oleander said flatly. "I can already guess. You're disgusted and horrified, and I can't blame you." The tears started coming again. "I mean, look at me. In the two months I've been here, I've killed three people and hurt more than double that. I attacked two angels and would've killed them if Zira hadn't begged me not to. I wouldn't have lost any sleep over it, either. Even though I try not to, I fall back on my powers at the first sign of trouble." She shook her head. "Let's face it, guys. I can't do it. I can't blend in, be like humans. Maybe I should just go back to Hell."

"What?!" Crowley yelled louder than he'd meant to, causing both his fellow demon and his angel to flinch. In a slightly quieter voice, he said, "Are you out of your bloody mind? They'll torture you, just like me, and this time they'll use holy water."

Oleander's mouth quivered at that last part, but she said nothing.

Aziraphale took over. "Oleander...we're not disgusted, and we're not horrified." He took her claw and clasped it in both hands. "We still love you. Really!" He added when Oleander looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. The Poison Demon said, "But...I killed eighty-five humans in cold blood!"

"Why?" Aziraphale asked, calmly.

"Because they murdered my pupils."

"Why?" Aziraphale sounded almost detached. "They were just humans. You could have had more pupils, if you'd waited a bit." Crowley would have been devastated to hear such callous words come from his angel. That is, if he didn't know his angel and was well aware of the tactic he was using.  
Oleander, however, did not. 

"It wouldn't have been the same!" She exclaimed. "I _cared_ about those girls! I-" She stopped, eyes wide.

Aziraphale's eyes were full of compassion. He held onto Oleander's claw. An anchor in a storm. "Go on," he encouraged her.

"I..." Oleander inhaled shakily. "I...I'd been told to teach people about poisonings. After all, what's the point in having poisonous plants around if nobody knows how to use them? So...that's why I was sent topsoil." She smiled at the memory. "It was beautiful. Even more beautiful than this." She gestured to their surroundings. The tall grass. The towering trees, their barks sheathed in moss. The birds flying overhead. "It was unlike anything I'd ever seen, and I fell in love with it on the spot. I knew that a human settlement was nearby, but I didn't bother getting too close. I didn't even learn the name. I didn't care. I was happy and at peace with my surroundings for the very first time, and as far as I was concerned, the humans could learn how to make poison on their own. But the humans saw me, and nicknamed me the 'witch of the wood'. Fine by me, as long as they left me alone.

But then, one day, I heard a group of young women chattering as they picked herbs. Little more than girls, they were, and talking about making a remedy for a rash. But they were picking starch-root, which irritates the skin, mouth, and throat. When ingested, it causes swelling, breathing difficulties, and stomach pain. It was such a laughably bad choice that that's what I did: laugh. The girls noticed me, and got so scared that I thought they'd soiled their undergarments. I pointed out their mistake, and, to my surprise, they got over their fear and wanted to know more. They begged and pleaded me to share my knowledge. I thought, why not? I don't have anything better to do. So, I steered them in the right direction for making a rash remedy. Calendula. Chamomile. Chickweed. That sort of thing. They thanked me, over and over, and left. I thought that was the end of it.

Oh, how wrong I was! Before I knew it, a dozen girls were knocking on my door - so to speak, I slept in a cave - begging me to teach them. They all wanted to become midwives, or medicinewomen. Or they just wanted to know their plants to care for their future husbands and children. I tried to turn them away, I did. But they all looked so earnest, I just couldn't. And just like that, I was conducting lessons every morning, before dawn. They all sat at my feet like children, hanging on my every word. But beyond that, they respected me. And, I think, liked me. I was a witch to them, but I was also someone who introduced an alternative. And I think they liked that."

"Must've been nice." Crowley remarked.

Oleander nodded, her eyes on the ground right in front of them. "Yeah. I still remember all their names, can you believe that? Anna Clayden. Modesty Huxley. Calah Acker. Delilah Dudley. Edna Keene. And more." She sighed. "They were all brilliant, every single one. They showed so much promise, so much intelligence; way more than their village credited them for. The only thing greater than their knowledge was...their faith." Her voice developed an edge. "They all prayed, several times a day. They obeyed God's laws, and repented whenever they 'sinned'. They honored their parents, they did as they were told..." One last tear ran down Oleander's face. "They loved God. And when they cried for Her to save them, as they were bleeding and suffering and dying...God did nothing." Oleander paused. "But I did." She peered at that same spot again, her eyes full of emotion. 

Crowley looked from her to that patch of grassy earth. He pointed. "That's where they're buried, isn't it?"

Aziraphale let out a squeak, backing away from the spot. Oleander gave a weak nod.

After making sure that his partner was alright, Crowley again stared at that section of earth, and imagined the pile of bones beneath it. Bones that had once been people with hopes, dreams, and aspirations, but had died at the hands of fear. Sighing, he took Oleander's chin and turned her face towards him. Oleander let him do it, her face still dark with shame. He tried to smile, his thumb brushing her jaw. "Sis...we love you, like Aziraphale said. But that's not enough: you have to love _**yourself**_. And that includes accepting what happened and moving on, and finally giving yourself some bloody peace. That's what I'm trying to do with Dr. Wu, and that's what you need to do with yourself. You owe yourself that." He pointed. "You owe those girls that. Besides," he added, "don't they deserve to be remembered for their lives, not their deaths?"

Oleander looked ready to break down again, right then and there. But at the last minute she collected herself, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "You're right." She met his gaze, something akin to lightness in her own. "I guess that's part of being human too, right?"

Crowley clapped her back. "You bet it is." 

Oleander hugged him, just like that. One second she was sitting there, looking at him with those big, black eyes; the next, she was holding him tight. Crowley responded after an instant, gesturing Aziraphale to join in. Not that the angel needed much encouraging. The trio stayed like that for a while. Probably could have stayed like that for hours. But a mile away, the clock tower began to chime.  
"Oh, dear!" Aziraphale pulled away slightly. "We're going to be late for the dinner!"  
It was Oleander's turn to draw back slightly, a question in her eyes. "Um...can I come?"  
"'Can'? You must!" Aziraphaled stroked her cheek. "Unless of course you don't want to, in which case we'll just go someplace else...after writing a very long apology to Adam."

Oleander stared at the angel, then at her fellow demon. Wondering how she got so lucky. Shakily, she nodded. "Okay. But first, there's something I have to do." She let go of Crowley and got up, her red dress billowing in the wind. Walked over to the spot and knelt down. Placed her hand on the ground and closed her eyes. There was a low rumbling, a slight tremor, and a tree burst forth. Crowley and Aziraphaled yelped, stumbling back, while Oleander held her ground. The tree emerged from the earth as rapidly as a serpent, sprouting branches as it grew. Soon, it was over fifty feet tall, healthy and strong. The trunk was slender and reddish-gray in color, its branches as thick as human arms. The serrated leaves were glossy and deep green, and greenish-yellow fruits and spiked flowers hung in bunches above their heads.  
The Poison Demon backed away, satisfaction printed on her strong-jawed face. She turned to her friends with a smile. "Machineel. One of the most toxic trees in the world. But don't worry, it'll behave; the forest won't suffer from its presence." She sighed. "I'd been wanting to do that for almost three centuries."

"Why didn't you?" Aziraphale asked, approaching the tree.

"Beelzebub was not happy about what I did." Oleander pointed at the scar on her neck. "They did this to me, then revoked my Earth Travel license for good."

"Which is why you needed me to come here." Crowley realized.

Oleander nodded. "Yep." She paused. "And...I'm glad they did. Revoke my license, I mean. Or I never would've wound up with you two." Aziraphale put a hand on his heart, moved by her words. 

Crowley got over his bout of fear long enough to smirk and join his fellow demon in front of the tree. "Nice tombstone, if I've ever seen one. But it's missing something." He looked down at Oleander. "May I?"

Oleander nodded, still smiling softly.

"Your girls?" Crowley asked. "What were their names? All of them."

Oleander's smile widened. She cupped her claw over Crowley's ear, whispering closely. He nodded, placed his hand on the tree's trunk, and concentrated. When he pulled away, the names of Oleander's pupils were carved into it, glowing from the residue magic.

Crowley smiled at his handiwork when he felt a pair of lips gently press against his cheek. And they weren't Aziraphale's. He blinked down at Oleander, who gave him a thankful smile. "Come on," she said, taking his hand, "we have a dinner to attend." Aziraphale joined them, taking Crowley's hand in his. As one, the three walked through the darkness, each of their hearts filled with light.

***

Mr. and Mrs. Young had no idea why their son had invited a couple of strangers to their house, especially since his explanation of, "They helped me save the world from the forces of Heaven and Hell," was less than satisfactory. Nor was Adam's insistence that one of them was an angel while the other was a demon. Adam had always had a hyperactive imagination, but even this seemed to be a bit much. All the same, it was Christmas, a time of kindness and compassion. Thus, when the doorbell rang, the Youngs greeted their guests as warmly as they could. Within half an hour, though, their politeness had melted into genuine warmth, and they found themselves enjoying these strangers' company as though they were old friends. Especially when the brandy got passed around, with Adam being stuck with apple juice. 

Speaking of Adam, the boy was extremely pleased that Aziraphale and Crowley had made it, and when Oleander honestly told him who she was, he merely grinned and said, "Wicked."

"Don't tell your parents, though." Oleander whispered, her black eyes darting towards the two human adults, who were lightly bickering over whether or not to play music at a low volume. "I mean, I'm sure they're lovely, but I don't think they'd be especially keen about it. A bit much to take in, you know?"

"Ah, don't worry." Adam assured her. "My parents have no problems with angels or demons. Watch!" He turned towards his parents. "Hey, Mum! Dad!" When they faced him, he jerked his thumb at Oleander. "This here's a demon, too!" Oleander let out a squawk, her mouth agape.

"That's nice, son!" Mr. Young's tone instantly put Oleander at ease, as did the older man's barely-hidden eye-roll as he reverted his attention to his wife.

Adam, oblivious to this, smiled at Oleander. "See? They're cool with it." And with that, he went off to claim his place at the table, heralded by Dog's cheerful barking. Smiling, he bent over in his chair and gave the former hellhound some much-deserved belly scratches, making the pup roll over and whimper in delight. The Poison Demon watched the boy's gentleness, shaking her head in amazement, before giving the house a gander. Even without the Christmas decorations it would have been wonderful. It was, by all accounts, an ordinary home with olive-green wallpaper, plenty of books lying around, and well-worn furniture. Family photos hung on the walls, and there were etchings in the doorframe marking Adam's height throughout his age. It was a real home, not just a house, and in that sense, it reminded Oleander of the bookshop. But the Christmas decorations, from the lights to the tree to the wreaths, added a touch of magic that neither Heaven or Hell could replicate.

A touch on her shoulder brought her out of her thoughts. Turning around, she was greeted by Aziraphale's cherubic face. "Enjoying yourself?" The angel was holding two glasses of brandy, and he offered one to her. 

Oleander smiled as she accepted it. "Yes, thank you. This..." She spread her arms out, like a bird about to take flight. "This is more than I ever could have imagined, Zira. But it wouldn't be as wonderful without you guys."

"Oh, darling," Aziraphale leaned forward and pecked her forehead, "the feeling is very much mutual." He held up his glass. "Cheers?"

Oleander mimicked him. "Cheers."

Their glasses clinked, and Aziraphale took a hearty swig at his brandy. Oleander, who thus far had only tasted beer and red wine, barely wet her lips with the brandy. Even that tiny amount was enough to make her dizzy. "Oh, Satan," she shook her head, "that is not for me."  
The angel chuckled. "I outright fainted the first time I tried it." The mental picture made Oleander chuckle. Experimentally, she sniffed at the brandy in the hopes that the scent would be less overpowering. No such luck. She sneezed, promptly setting her glass on the mantlepiece with no intention of reclaiming it. Aziraphale looked at her warmly, his heart fit to bursting with affection. Even though the day had taken an unexpected turn, he remained resolute in his feelings: Oleander was family. Which was why he leaned forward again, this time confidentially. "My dear, do you remember our little secret?"  
Oleander, grateful to have a distraction from the brandy, lit up like a candle. "I most definitely do." Her eyes were so large that Aziraphale could see himself in those expanded black pupils. "So, when do you want to do it?"  
"After dinner, I think." Aziraphale replied, his face filled with both excitement and anxiety. His eyes flickered at Crowley, who was lounging on the couch with a full glass of brandy. He was drinking it as though it were water as the classical music magically changed to Queen's top hits. There mere sight of him made the angel's heart skip a beat. "Which is why I was wondering if, well, you could assist me. Only a bit!" Aziraphale added, worried of burdening his friend.  
Oleander grinned. "Are you kidding?! Count me in!"  
Aziraphale's body went lax with relief. "Oh! Oh, thank you, darling!" He trapped her in a quick hug, making her giggle as she hugged back, before pulling away. "This means so much to me. Truly, I cannot stress how much I appreciate this."  
Oleander gave him a look. "Zira, honey, after everything you and Crowley did for me today, I'll do anything I can to make this special. So," she straightened, "what can I do?"  
"Er, well," Aziraphale took another sip of brandy, "you could dim the lights with your plants, if you please, to create a bit more of a... _romantic_ atmosphere."  
"Oooh!" Oleander teased him before growing serious again. "Okay, is that it?"  
"Yes, that should do nicely!" Aziraphale beamed. "Thank you so much for your help, dear. Truly."  
Oleander smiled softly at him. "What are friends for?"

In that moment, Mrs. Young announced, "Okay, everyone! Dinner's ready!"

Oleander's smile widened into a grin. "Come on," she slipped her claw into Aziraphale's hand, "I'm starved."

Dinner was a large, golden turkey, roast potatoes, and herb stuffing, with plenty of Yorkshire pudding and gravy to pass around. As plates were filled and Queen hummed in the air, the conversation flowed among those gathered at the table. There was a lot of catching up, with the supernatural entities giving edited reports as to what they'd been up to. They held hands the entire time, and occasional stole kisses between mouthfuls. Mr. and Mrs. Young, likewise, told them all about their lives, their jobs, and their projects. Adam, too, told them about secondary school, and his many adventures with the Them. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he savored every dish, then proceeded to clear his plate and politely ask for seconds. Crowley picked at his food, but managed to put away a bite of turkey, a handful of potatoes, and a spoonful of stuffing. The rest was discreetly lowered to Dog, who made quick work of the golden-brown thigh. Oleander took notes as she ate, asking the Youngs how they'd cooked the turkey and suggesting what herbs they could put in the stuffing next year. "Trust me," she grinned, "I know plants."

Through a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding, Adam asked about her powers. When she laid it out for him, he demanded a demonstration, unfazed by his parents' presence. Thankfully, his parents were too preoccupied chatting with Crowley and Aziraphale to overhear them. Nervously, Oleander held her claw out to Adam. A seed sat in the center of her palm. As the boy's wide blue eyes watched, growing even wider, a yellow flower grew from the seed, blooming in full in the soft lights. "Mexican poppy," Oleander filled in. "It causes epidemic dropsy, so don't even think about eating the seeds."  
"I won't." Adam promised her. "But anyway, why bother making flowers? They're not cool."  
"Ah, but they're deceptive." Oleander replied. "They can look like harmless flowers, luring people in, and bam! Lights out."  
"Huh," Adam took a bite out of his turkey, "not like how I'd make poisonous plants, but, oh well."  
Oleander rolled her eyes at him, smiling all the way, when Mr. Young suddenly turned to her. "So, Olivia, your brother tells me that you've spent quite a while abroad. Are you still a UK citizen, or do you have dual citizenship?"

Uh-oh. Oleander froze, unsure of what to say. "Er, I..."

Aziraphale, bless his heart, swept in. "Olivia is a UK resident now." He explained, nodding as he nibbled along.

Oleander relaxed at Mr. and Mrs. Young's nodding. She added, "I'm staying in London. My choice." Adam grinned at her, winking, as he drank his apple juice. Crowley caught her eye, wherein he shot her a thumbs up. Oleander beamed.

The main course was eventually traded in for the homemade mince pies. When Oleander bit into one, her taste-buds tingled with delight, tasting cranberries, raisins, and chopped nuts. She ate three, matching Aziraphale, while Crowley managed half of one.  
As dessert, too, was cleared away, Oleander turned to the married couple. "Thank you so much for having us. I..." She spoke honestly. "This is the best Christmas I've ever had, really."

"Oh, why aren't you sweet!" Mrs. Young exclaimed, patting her hand. "You're quite welcome, dear." Speaking to Aziraphale and Crowley as well, she said, "If you'd like to come over for New Year's as well, we'd be more than happy to have you. It would have quite a few more people, obviously, but still!"

"Why, thank you!" Aziraphale blushed, his hand on his heart. "That is very kind of you, Deirdre." He turned to Crowley, joining their hands. Asking him a silent question. The demon gave a sallow smile. "Yeah, why not? The more, the merrier."  
_Besides,_ he thought, _we might as well enjoy one last happy moment before the War._ The thought still scared him, almost enough to make him regurgitate his small dinner. But he held on, determined to focus on the present. Determined to believe that their side would have a future as well.

Aziraphale's hand tightened around his. "Dearest," the angel whispered, "I think I spy some mistletoe hanging over there." Crowley looked at the other side of the room. True enough, a sprig of mistletoe hung from the chandelier. Crowley cocked a brow, smirking devilishly. "Are you trying to tempt me, angel?"  
"Well, yes, maybe." Aziraphale simpered, but there was a touch of tension in his smile. "Am I succeeding?"  
Crowley laughed as he rose. "I don't see why we need mistletoe now, but okay! Why not? It's Christmas." He pulled his lover along, grunting. "For someone's sake, Aziraphale! We're going to have to roll you out of here!"  
"Oh, hush, you!" Aziraphale replied, though his tone was slightly strained. Crowley didn't notice, but Aziraphale pointed at the stereo. The music changed for the second time that evening. Upbeat piano music began to play, and before long, a suave voice began to sing.

_"You're a falling star, you're the get-away car.  
You're the line in the sand when I go too far.  
You're the swimming pool on an August day,  
And you're the perfect thing to say."_

Crowley made a mental note to ask his angel about his mood later. For now, he guided him under the mistletoe and took both his hands. "Well, here we are, following a tradition that's younger than we are."

"Yes." Aziraphale simpered. "Here we are, celebrating Christmas of all things. Together." He brought one of their linked hands to his face. Never breaking their gaze, he kissed Crowley's hand, one knuckle at a time. It sent chills up Crowley's spine. "I've actually wanted to celebrate Christmas with you for a while now, my love. Forty years or so."  
The demon's jaw dropped. "Then why didn't you?! We could have spent all twelve days of Christmas getting drunk!"

_"And you play it coy but it's kinda cute,  
Ah, when you smile at me you know exactly what you do.  
Baby don't pretend that you don't know it's true.  
'Cause you see it when I look at you."_

Aziraphale laughed. "Yes, we could've." His mirth faded, replaced by sadness. Regret. "But I was afraid. Afraid of getting too close, of 'rebelling' and 'consorting' with the enemy, even though I haven't considered you the enemy since our first talk on the wall of Eden. And yet, I didn't admit it to myself until it was far too late. I was afraid of being discovered, of being deemed unworthy of Heaven, of Falling, even. But I cherished every moment with you, and during our time together, I thought about you constantly. You have always been my only friend. And in all honesty, you still are my best friend, as well as my lover."  
In the corner, Oleander waved her hand. Plants curled around the chandelier, as well as the lamps, blotting out most of their light. Adam was the only one who noticed, and he grinned from ear to ear.

_"And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times  
It's you, it's you, you make me sing.  
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything."_

Crowley took in his angel's words with huge serpentine eyes. For the first time he listened to the song's words, and found himself struggling to breathe. His heart stuttered within his thin chest. "Angel," he said softly, "why are you telling me this?"

"Because I refuse to be afraid anymore." Aziraphale replied, stroking Crowley's smooth cheek. "I refuse to allow you one more second of ignorance on how much I love you, and how far I am willing to go for us. And I refuse to waste any more time." He inhaled shakily, reaching into his pocket and bringing forth the small, velvet box. With his heart beating at a breakneck speed, he got down on one knee. Mrs. Young noticed and gasped. All other conversation in the room died.  
Oleander smirked at the scene, eyed the mistletoe above their heads, and waved her hand. It thickened and grew, its leaves multiplying and its berries growing heavy. 

_"You're a carousel, you're a wishing well,  
And you light me up, when you ring my bell.  
You're a mystery, you're from outer space,  
You're every minute of my every day."_

Crowley forgot how to breathe. He forgot how to blink. He could only stare, with his large yellow eyes, as his angel presented him with the velvet box. Inside was a ring made of white gold, the gleaming band made to look like a serpent curling around its own tail. Nestled between the ends of the snake was a diamond the size of a chickpea, giving off rainbow hues in the gentle lighting. It took Crowley's breath away. He stared at it, then at Aziraphale, who was gazing up at him with a combination of hope, love, and adoration. It was almost enough to make Crowley discorporate on the spot, too overwhelmed by the emotions he was both feeling and witnessing.

_"And I can't believe, uh, that I'm your man,  
And I get to kiss you, baby, just because I can.  
Whatever comes our way, ah, we'll see it through,  
And you know that's what our love can do."_

"Anthony J. Crowley," Aziraphale stated, the velvet box trembling in his hands, "you are my best friend, my partner in rebellion, and my lover. You are the kindest, strongest, most special person I've ever met, and you are the center of my world. There is nothing in the world that I wouldn't do for you, and while I know that I haven't always shown it, I hope to make up for all of my misgivings with this gesture. Because you mean more to me than anything else in the universe. As the song suggests, heh, you are everything." He swallowed audibly. "Will you do me the incredble honor of becoming my husband?"

Crowley stood there for a moment, breathing shakily, as tears ran down his cheeks. Recognizing this gesture for what it meant, for what it promised. He saw the future unfold before them, bright and warm as a spring day. He threw himself into Aziraphale's arms, holding the angel as tightly as he could without breaking any bones. "Yesssssssss." He hissed in his ear, smiling fully for the first time in months. Aziraphale choked back his happy tears as he gladly returned the embrace. "Marvellous." As they pulled apart, Aziraphale gently took Crowley's hand and slipped the ring onto it. By some miracle or another, it was a perfect fit. The Youngs cheered and clapped, with Dog barking excitedly, while Oleander whistled. But in that moment, the angel and the demon could only see each other. Crowley seized Aziraphale by the soft hair and pulled him into a heated kiss, making them both see stars.

_"And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times_  
It's you, it's you, you make me sing.  
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything." 

By the time they pulled apart, their lips were bruised and their cheeks were flushed. Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. "I...I know it wasn't a flashy proposal, or fancy, but I wanted it to be simple, and tender, and-"

"Angel." Crowley interrupted. "It was perfect." Crowley again skimmed his lips against his **fiance's** , feeling the tears run down his face. "You're perfect."

***

On the drive home, Crowley's insane speeding - for once - caused no protests whatsoever. Oleander had her head out the window, letting the cold wind comb through her long hair. Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat, practically glowing from happiness. Crowley drove as Queen played at full blast, one of his hands on the wheel.

The other was tucked into Aziraphale's. Their twin rings of white gold, shaped like serpents, glinting in the moonlight.


	11. Larkspur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War is ready to start. Upstairs, Heaven has created weapons inspired by the 20th century. Downstairs, Hell has also armed itself to the teeth. The only thing left for them to do is sound the war horns and begin their march to the battlefield.
> 
> Hastur tries to convince Oleander to 'come home', that the Dark Council may forgive her if she fights for Hell. Oleander makes herself VERY clear on where she stands, and pays the price for it. 
> 
> Little does either side know that Crowley, Aziraphale, and Oleander have been getting ready, too. And it involves some of the Poison Demon's finest work yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy.

It began on the day after Christmas. The attempt to avert the War...again.

The trio initially had no idea where to begin. Back when Armageddon had been on the verge of beginning, both Crowley and Aziraphale had been fully aware of what their sides intended to do, if not through direct orders then through professional osmosis. They had known everything about the War, right up to when it was intended to start. But now, they had no such luxury. Heaven and Hell had sealed them off for good, and if they had had the power to disown them as an angel and a demon, respectfully, they happily would have. But only God could do such a thing, and She hadn't shown Her face or Spoken in eons. Thus, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley could sneak into the offices of their former sides and copy their battles plans. Besides, the mere suggestion of going back to Hell, even under cover, had sent Crowley into a panic attack that had taken his companions hours to coax him out of.

This disservice had discouraged them, to say the least, because how could they hope to annul the War when they knew next to nothing about it?

On the day after Christmas they had occupied the bookshop, stationed at different points, trying to brainstorm possible strategies. But it had been at least two hours since anyone had suggested anything, their silent hopelessness polluting the air.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, carefully re-binding a copy of the Bible that had been given to him by a priest back in the Middle Ages. Poor bloke died of a fever not long after, and Aziraphale had blessed him with a peaceful death. Every once in a while he'd glance up, eyeing his fiance and his friend above the rims of his glasses. Then, chewing his bottom lip, he'd get back to work with nothing useful to say.

Oleander was posted at the windowsill, where wan sunlight was streaming in. Half a dozen little earthen pots were on display, each one hosting a small poisonous plant that she'd birthed with a wave of her hand. Wolfbane. Desert rose. Pheasant's Eye. They all basked in the light and greedily drank in the water, growing strong under the Poison Demon's careful watch. She could tend to them for hours, with or without magic, but even caring for her little ones could not banish the coldness settling in the pit of Oleander's stomach.

Crowley was the most restless of the three. He kept twitching on the couch, looking restlessly around his surroundings, before getting up and pacing. Sometimes he'd get up and make himself a strong cup of coffee. Other times, he'd bring Aziraphale and Oleander some tea, which they would accept with many thanks. At one point he got out, cleaned his Bentley in the span of ten minutes, and came back to pace again. Currently, he was fiddling with an antique radio that Aziraphale had picked up back in the late 1880s, in between his gavotte sessions with a discreet gentlemen's club. He was just messing with it, needing to project his nervous energy into something. But then, with a fizzle of static, Beelzebub's voice hummed through. "...and we're going to need another million rounds of ammunition, and be sure to imbue them with hellfire-"

Crowley shrieked, all but tossing the radio on the carpet. Aziraphale and Oleander turned their heads, eyes wide, as the Lord of Flies's voice continued to fly through the static like a moth in a blizzard. They barked out commands, one after another, in their usual monotone, but there came a brief chuckle.

The demon let out a whine. "No, no, no..." His eyes had widened so much that they were visible behind the shades. "Not again, not again..."

_"What's the matter, traitor?!" Beelzebub chuckled. "Afraid of your own brethren?"_

_All of Hell laughed and jeered as they watched Crowley. They had tossed him into a deep pit, with every type of venomous snake waiting for him at the bottom. He tried again and again to climb up, to get away, but one demon or another threw something at him or stepped on his fingers, sending him tumbling down again. He cried in agony and frustration as he fell, hitting jagged rocks on the way down. When he landed, every bone in his body snapped like toothpicks. He lay there, paralyzed and in anguish, staring up at the tiny oval of light far above him. Tears leaked down his face as the snakes slithered on top of him, their cold scales slimy against his flesh, their hisses deafening, their bites igniting cold fires within him..._

"Crowley! Hey, Crowley!" Oleander was kneeling in front of him, her claws digging into his shoulders. "Come back to us, bro, please!"

"It's okay, my love!" Aziraphale's hands cupped Crowley's cheeks, which were wet with tears. "You're home, alright? You're home."

Crowley blinked back the memory, all but sobbing in despair, as he looked at one face, then another. Their love for him, their concern, was a feeble thread keeping him aground like a kite. Aziraphale wiped away his fiance's tears, trying to smile. "It's okay, dear. Just remember what Dr. Wu taught you. Name five things you see in this room."

"I..." Crowley's voice was hoarse. His serpent's eyes looked around, all the while his mind galloped about like a maddened steed. "I...The bookshelves, filled with books. The kitchen doorway. The lamp in the corner. And...you two."

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at him. One of his hands left Crowley's cheek, instead taking his trembling hand. "Very good, darling. Four things you can hear?"

Crowley felt his breathing come a little easier. "Uh...traffic outside, the fridge humming, the clock ticking...and your breathing. Both of you." 

Oleander let go of Crowley's shoulders, opting instead to sit beside him. "Good, you're doing great, bro. Three things you can feel?"

"I feel Aziraphale's hand..." Crowley replied, his breathing slowing to normal, "Your shoulder against my arm...my clothes..." He took a deep, calming breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, they were no longer glassy with tears. "I'm alright. Really."  
Aziraphale smiled, gratitude and relief filling every line on his face. "Yes, you are. My wonderful, strong, beautiful darling." He stroked Crowley's cheek, wiping away the last of his tears. Crowley covered the angel's hand with his, smiling shakily.  
Oleander, realizing that her friends were having a moment, silently slipped away. Her eyes caught the radio, and narrowed.

"It was just...a bit of a shock." Crowley continued, sitting up. It was only then that he realized that he'd toppled off the couch and had landed on the carpet beneath it. He looked away, trying to hide the heat creeping up his neck and into his face. Aziraphale saw it anyway, and it only made his heart melt for his fiance. "Oh, sweetheart." He gently pulled Crowley's face towards his, allowing the demon to look directly into his eyes. "I am so proud of you."  
"You are?" Crowley's voice sounded like it needed oil.  
"So much." Aziraphale smiled, his eyes full of love. "You are the strongest person I know, and I'm so proud of your efforts." He leaned forward and pressed a light kiss on Crowley's, filling the demon with warmth. As he pulled back, they looked into each other's eyes. "We'll come up with something, my love, I promise."

Crowley was about to reply when Oleander spoke up from a ways off. "Yeah, we will." The angel and the demon turned to their friend, who was cradling the buzzing radio to her chest as though it were a newborn. "And this thing is the key to coming up with a plan."

The demon stared at the contraption in his 'sister's grasp, and slowly watched it transform before his eyes. Slowly, it changed from being an object of terror, a direct line to the source of his trauma, to a handy tool. A spark which could burn down the War effort on both sides. A smile crept its way on Crowley's angular face. "Do you think that thing can reach Heaven as well as Hell?" He asked his comrades.

Aziraphale winked. "I'm sure it will once I grant a tiny miracle."

Crowley's smile widened, became wolfish. He went from prey to predator, and it felt amazing. "Well then, let's get to work."

And so they did.

***

Heaven had always been peaceful. It was part of the reason it was perfect. Usually, the only sounds to be heard in God's kingdom were celestial harmonies and _'The Sound of Music'_ , playing softly in the distance. But now, the kingdom of God echoed with the sounds of war. Swords being sharped. War drums beating. Strategies being revised. Orders being given. Each angel was sent to their respective platoon, their names signed off and their belts heavy with the secret weapon. First the foot soldiers, then the generals. Rows upon rows of angels, clad in glimmering silver and pure-white cloth, stood at the Pearly Gates. Ready to march out. 

Gabriel watched this from his perch, with his fellow Archangels flanked on both sides. He was wearing the same armor he'd worn during the first War between Heaven and Hell, and even though six thousand years had passed, it still fit like a glove. Its design would inspire both the Roman Empire and medieval Europe, with a plumed helmet and a cuirass engraved with Scripture ( _“Behold, the Lord came with many thousands of His holy ones, to execute judgment upon all, and to convict all the ungodly of all their ungodly deeds which they have done in an ungodly way, and of all the harsh things which ungodly sinners have spoken against Her"_ ). Polished pauldrons covered his broad shoulders, from which a brilliant white cape rippled. His weapon of choice was a javelin whose spear was coated in a never-drying coat of holy water. Gabriel didn't like to brag, of course, but he could throw it at a distance of over forty meters, and in the first War, he could skewer up to three demons with one hurl.  
He smiled down at his soldiers, proud of every single one of them. How perfect they all were, how disciplined and effective! Sure, he may not have known them all by name - there _were_ ten million of them after all, and the head of an army doesn't need the name of every single soldier - but he knew that deep in their hearts, they believed in their cause and were ready to fight for it. That was more than enough for him. Especially with their secret weapon.

Sandalphon, who had recovered quite nicely from his encounter with the demon, stood beside Gabriel as he always had. True, Sandalphon wasn't an Archangel, but he _was_ Gabriel's right-hand man. He was dressed in similar garb, with the only differences being the Scripture on his cuirass ( _“Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones”_ ) and his weapon of choice being a club of almost comical largeness. Leaning against it like a walking cane, Sandalphon instead extracted on of the secret weapons from his belt and held it up. "So," he said, "this is the game-changer? It doesn't look like much." It was a wooden bulb small enough to fit in his hand, with a pin holding the lid into place.  
Gabriel smiled indulgently at his fellow angel. "These are the seeds of righteousness, dear Sandalphon!"  
"But what do they do?" Sandalphon insisted. "I'm afraid I was...indisposed when they were being made."  
Gabriel patted him on the back in sympathy. "We took a page from humanity's book. It turns out, if there's anything they've been consistently good at over the millennia, it's killing each other. Now, of course, we can't be destroyed by the same means, but we could be if the right tools are used." He summoned forth one of the bulbs. "These little beauties, for example, are filled with holy water. Once their pins are pulled and they're thrown, they'll explode in a fine spray of the stuff. Humans used similar items during both of their 'World Wars, only theirs contained vile chemicals instead of holy water. It was called 'chemical warfare'."  
Sandalphon was practically drooling at the image of thousands of demons shrieking as their bodies melted away, the mist digging into every orifice of their filthy bodies. "How fascinating." He grinned down at his bauble with fresh appreciation. "I am certainly going to enjoy myself with these."

"Ah, ah, ah." Gabriel wagged a playful finger at his right-hand man. "We are not doing this to enjoy ourselves, dear Sandalphon. We are doing it in Her name." He pointed upward. 

"Of course." Sandalphon purred, smirking as he put the bauble back in its place, letting it hang from his belt like its nineteen lookalikes.

A female messanger materialized before them. Bowing deeply to Gabriel, she said in a small voice, "Great Archangel, the troops are ready to receieve your speech before we march to battle."

Gabriel grinned. "Excellent." He stepped forward. Down below, a distant voice called, "Attention!" All the soldiers moved as a single entity, facing Gabriel. Their eyes were upon him, filled with adoration. Adjusting his helmet slightly, the Archangel spoke normally, yet his voice carried all across Heaven like a roll of thunder.

"Fellow angels of every station, you are about to witness a magnificent event. Six thousand years ago, ten million of our former comrades betrayed us, betrayed God, and stood with Old Scratch. We fought them with all that we had, and we won, pushing those vile turncoats down into the pit of boiling sulphur where they belonged. Now, we are going to fight them again, and this time, we will not simply eradicate them from Heaven; we shall eradicate them from reality itself, in part thanks to the latest addition to our weaponry." Gabriel held up a bulb. "Each of you has twenty. No more, no less. You have been taught how to use them. But do not waste them." He put the bulb back and smiled brightly at the angels. "Soldiers, today is the day that - at last - Heaven will vanquish Hell!" He raised his fist, and they all raised theirs as they cheered. Perfect unison.

***

Hell's creatures paused in their preparations, lifting their heads and cocking their ears. There, faintly, was a cacophony of cheers that they had all heard once before, a long time ago: when they had all Fallen. It was nearly time. They all grinned at each other and got back to work, picking up the pace. They slipped into their suits of armor, the very same that they'd worn six thousand years ago. The metal was rusted, the canvas pocked full of holes, and many boots had to be sealed shut with duct tape. But where their protective gear faltered, their weapons were of the finest quality: crossbows and rifles, switchblades and maces. Nearly every century of human civilization was represented, each equipped with a fair amount of hellfire. It had certainly helped that they had the worst that humanity had to offer being tortured just downstairs, in the Nine Circles. Any demon with a pass and a decent set of directions could go down there and make a doomed soul advise Hell on its artillery.

All in all, Hell's army was looking impressive. And yet, Hastur felt uneasy. A gnawing anxiety ate at him, more and more, until at last he could take it no longer and made his way topsoil. 

***

Weeks passed, too slowly and too quickly at the same time. But at last, the big day came. Nobody walking past that antique bookshop would have ever suspected a thing. Especially not that, behind the 'closed' sign was a discussion that would save the entire planet...again.

"Right," Crowley set up Aziraphale's chess pieces on the table, "let's go over the plan one more time, yeah?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, good idea, love."

Oleander grinned. "I'm listening."

Crowley clapped his hands together, the sound resonating throughout the bookshop. "Okay," he pointed to the black chess pieces, "on one side, we have Hell. Our suspicions were right. Just like with the first War, they're using whatever they've got. Weapons, damned souls, what have you. Humanity's had thousands of years to learn about war, and Hell has been picking the brains of every soul they've got in the Circles. Every dead Klansman, Nazi, Hun, you name it."

"Not to mention every killer that has ever lived and died." Oleander piped up.

Aziraphale grimaced at the mention before adding, "Don't forget hellfire, my dears."

Crowley pointed at his fiance. "Yes, that too. Every single weapon will be filled, or covered, or cursed, with hellfire. So, that's one side of the spectrum. As for the other..." He gestured to the white pieces. "They've come up with a secret weapon of sorts. Something inspired by chemical warfare. My guess is grenades, or bottles of tear gas. They're almost certainly filled with holy water, they'll definitely do some damage. In other words," Crowley straightened, straightening his black shirt. "...If they get down to it, it's going to a nasty affair."

"To say the least." Oleander commented. "But at least Satan won't be participating, or the War would be pointless."

Aziraphale gave the Poison Demon a disapproving look. "Oleander, dear, you can't mean that."

Oleander smiled sadly at the angel before patting his shoulder. "Sorry, Zira, but I do. Satan was once the brightest and strongest angel in the sky. Second only to God herself. When he Fell, his power didn't lessen, it just darkened. Just like all of ours. So, since God is a no-show again," Aziraphale sighed, "having the being that was strong enough to rebel against God would definitely turn the tide in Hell's favor."

"What about the Dark Council?" Crowley asked, needing a reminder. "Are they staying behind as well?"

"Yes, I do believe they are as well." Aziraphale replied, casting his mind back a few days prior. "As for Heaven, aside from God, everyone is marching out." He turned to Oleander again, this time with curiosity. "Have you finished your latest creation, my dear?"

Oleander grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, yes." She reached for a small satchel around her neck, barely large enough to stash a walnut in. Holding it up, she ran her thumb over it. "For both sides." Dropping it, she said, "But remember, since we can't enter Heaven or Hell, we need to plant it on the soldiers as they're marching on Earth. So we have to keep our ears open for the war horn on both sides."

Crowley nodded, looking at his notes. "It's going to take place right here, in Soho." His tone darkened, like the sun being obscured by a thick cloud. "They want to punish us, no doubt, by destroying our home first before moving on to the rest of the world."

"Well, they won't!" Aziraphale hit his knee with the side of his fist. "The moment they arrive, they will receive the surprise of a lifetime." 

But it was all three that receieved a surprise when someone knocked at the front door. They all froze, exchanging puzzled stares, when a voice called out, "Oleander?!"

Both demons froze, then shared another, more shocked set of looks. "Hastur?!" Crowley hissed. "What the Heaven is he doing here?!"

"Heaven if I know!" Oleander exclaimed as she got to her feet. Her black eyes darted to the doorway, filling with anxiety. "Fuck, I couldn't get away from him in Hell, and now he's on Earth, too! Wonderful!"

"But," Aziraphale looked to Crowley, "darling, we haven't heard the war horns yet."

"He must be alone, then. Besides, we'd have all smelled the brimstone by now if Hell was on the way." Crowley grumbled. 

"Don't worry," Oleander growled, "I'll send him packing." Her eyes briefly glowed as she turned away, causing Aziraphale to leap to his feet. "Wait!" 

Oleander stopped, confusion printed on her face. The angel stopped before her, putting his hands on her arms. "Dear, what if you don't need to resort to violence?"

Both demons stared at him as though he'd gone mad. "What are you saying?" Oleander asked, incredulous. "That I just let him waltz in here and kill you both?"

"No," Aziraphale replied, emanating earnestness, "but what if you got him to understand?"

"Understand...humanity? Life on Earth?" Crowley let out a wild cackle. "Sorry, angel, but I don't think I've heard anything as insane as that!"

"But why not?!" Aziraphale asked. "If you two could see the beauty of a life here on Earth, why can't Hastur?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know," Oleander's voice dripped with sarcasm, "maybe because he's made of pure evil?"

"He's of the same stock as you two," Aziraphale argued, "so if there's good in you, there must be good in him!"

The door trembled under the force of Hastur's fist. "Oleander!" He yelled. "Come on! I just want to have a word!"

"I've heard that one before." Crowley mumbled, recalling what had been meant to be the last day on Earth. 

Oleander sighed, gently removing Aziraphale's hands from her arms. "Zira...you're a real sweetheart, anyone with working eyes can see that. And I know that you're all about giving people the benefit of the doubt. I mean, you befriended two of your 'hereditary enemies', after all." She shook her head. "But trust me: Hastur's as unflinchingly evil as they come. Why do you think he's a Duke? Because of his amazing fashion sense?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but another set of pounding knocks made him jump like a rabbit. "Oleander!" Hastur yelled. "If you don't come out in five seconds, then I'll kill every human in this street!"

The trio froze. "He's bluffing." Crowley said, unconvinced.

"One!"

"Oh, Lord." Aziraphale whimpered.

"Two!"

"Okay, okay!" Oleander was at the door, forcing it open. "What?!"

Hastur stood there, pale and black-eyed and dressed in clothes that hadn't been in fashion in decades. His face broke out in a smile. "I knew that would work!"

Oleander hissed. "What do you want, Hastur? I'm busy."

The Duke of Hell held up both hands in surrender. "Just stay calm, please? Like I said, I only want a word."

"Oh," Oleander arched her brows, "by threatening casual mass murder?"

"Well, I had to say _something_ to get you to come out!"

Oleander closed her eyes, sighing deeply. "If I talk to you, will you leave?"

"Yes, of course." Hastur dropped his voice confidentially. "I'm not even supposed to be here! Lord Beelzebub would skin me alive if they knew!"

"Oh, poor you." Oleander rolled her eyes. Beneath her annoyance, she felt fear. And under that still, anxiety. Nothing good could come from Hastur's presence, but as dim and unimaginative as he was, he was still deadly. If she refused to talk to him, he very well might make good on his threat. Hopefully, she could shake him off before the war horns sounded.   
A solution suddenly came to her. "Wait here." She slammed the door in the Duke's face, not waiting for an answer. Marching across the bookshop's living room, and forbidding her terror to show on her face, Oleander removed the pouch from around her neck and pressed it into Aziraphale's hand. "If I'm not back in time," she told them, "do what I'd do, and launch it at the armies. As close as you can: fly if you need a better shot. The seeds will do the rest."

"You can't be serious." Crowley shook his head. "Now?! Of all times?!"

"Well, what choice do I have?" Oleander demanded. "You know how Hastur is: to him, any life outside a demon's is as trifling as a drop in the ocean! And even then, the list of demons he'd actually mourn is so small, it would fit in a pixie's pocket." She sighed. "I swear, I'll cut the conversation short as soon as I can. But if it starts, go on without me. Okay?"

Crowley shook his head. "Sis-"

"Please, Crowley." Oleander reached forward and cupped Crowley's face, surprising them both. "Please, just trust me." She nodded at the small satchel in a stunned Aziraphale's hand. "Everything we need to halt the War is in there. But how can we stop it if Hastur storms in and discorporates us all?"

The demon opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked deeply into those inky eyes, and felt a swelling of emotion. Tears once again blurred his vision, and he pulled Oleander into a tight embrace that she desperately returned. Aziraphale joined in, trying to keep his own tears at bay. For a reason none of them could explain but sensed deep within their bones, this felt like a farewell. When they pulled away, Oleander met both their gazes for a long moment, as if committing their faces to memory. "I love you both. Always will." She began to walk backwards, delaying the moment in which she'd inevitably have to look away from them. When at last she did, something broke in the air. Soundlessly, but utterly.

The couple watched her slip out the front door, heard her gruffly instruct Hastur on where they would go, and then her shadow left their sight. They blinked at the door, their hearts beating at a singular, desperate pace, before looking down at the pouch of seeds. Oleander's latest creation, specifically created to stop both Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale spoke first, in a voice thick with emotion. "She had a name for it, didn't she?"

Crowley nodded, not looking away from the satchel.

The angel slipped his hand in Crowley's. "Do you remember what is was, dear?"

Crowley did. "Demon's Dare."

***

Oleander stuffed her claws in her baggy sweatshirt's pockets, avoiding the Duke's eyes even though they kept grazing over her like sharpened razors. The two of them walked a foot apart within St. James, at her discretion. Here, surrounded by nature, she felt safer. It helped calm her shock at having to look at the demon again. But at the same time, having him here angered her. It was a beautiful, overcast day. Street performers were playing music along the duck pond, where the waterfowl went about their business. Birds chirped in the sky. Families were drinking hot beverages, huddled up on benches, while lovers kissed under the trees. Balloons and kites were specks of color against the gray sky. If it weren't for Hastur, this scenery would have given her so much joy. "So." Oleander started, her voice flat and cold. "What do you want?"

Hastur started. "Isn't it obvious?"

The Poison Demon dared a gander, if only to give him an annoyed, 'just spit it out' sort of look.

"Oleander," Hastur sounded like an exasperated parent, "you've had your fun rebelling, and coming to the surface. You had your little vacation. Now, it's time to come home."

"Home?" Oleander echoed, brow firmly arched. "You mean Hell?"

"Where else?" Hastur asked. He gestured to their surroundings, barely even looking at them. "All of this will be gone by the end of the day, and we will win."

Oleander caught the tremor in his voice. Narrowed in on it. "Do you reall think that?"

Hastur sputtered. "Well, we have plenty of weapons, we have hellfire, but -"

"But?" Oleander drawled.

Hastur sighed, looking both annoyed and embarrassed. "We could really use you back home. Your poisons, your plants...there's a rumor going on that you beat up Sandalphon and Uriel of all angels! Is it true?"

Oleander remained silent, claws in her pockets. Staring at him.

The Duke took this as confirmation, letting out a cackle. "See? See?! I always knew you were a tough cookie! That's why I pursued you! There will still be time for that, by the way." He added behind his hand, trying to sound seductive but instead making Oleander's skin crawl. Dropping his hand, Hastur continued. "You could really help us win against those angels, with you poisons! Heaven, you could come up with a whole new one made specifically to target angels!"

Oleander smirked. If the Duke knew how close he was to the truth...

"Besides," Hastur continued, "our superiors are not happy with you, Oleander. Beelzebub is especially bitter about Dagon, who still hasn't recovered completely from your escape. Frankly, they'd see you boiled in oil. The Dark Council would let them do it, too, if it meant making an example out of, well, traitors. But," he grinned, showing off his filthy teeth, "if I vouch for you, and you fight for Hell, that would help your cause! And after the War, when we'll have won, if you throw yourself at the Dark Council's feet and beg for forgiveness, they might be willing to overlook your past behavior." He took a step closer to her. "So, what do you say?"

Oleander stared at him for a second. Then, she asked, "You want me to grovel before the Dark Council, the Seven Deadly Sins incarnate, and beg them for mercy? After you expect me to fight a War I don't give a shit about anymore, for a bunch of demons who I can barely even remember?"

Now it was Hastur's turn to stare at her, his eyes and mouth becoming three perfect 'o's. 

Oleander nodded, bitterly satisfied. "Newsflash, Hastur: _I wasn't happy in Hell_. Not for a single moment, in six thousand years. I had no friends, no lovers, no family. Nobody to talk to except for my creations. Not to mention how fucking empty my life was. I barely had an identity down there! I was just 'the Poison Demon', nothing else! I had no hobbies, no favorite foods, no favorite films, books, nothing! But here?" She held out a claw, where a larkspur grew and bloomed. A tall, thin stalk filled with deep purple flowers. "Here," Oleander softened her tone ever so slightly, "it's full of choices, and options, and well, life! Here, I have a home, a real home, and two people whom I love."

Hastur looked at her with disgust. "You mean the angel and the traitor?"

"Yes, that's exactly who I mean." Oleander growled. "Think what you like about them, but they're ahead of all of us. They broke the mold, became people, and didn't care that they came from two different sides. They fell in love." She shook her head. "And they love me, care about me. Which is something you'll never understand, even if you spend the rest of your immortal life trying to figure it out."

Hastur's disgust faded away, turning into something else. Something cold, and stony.

Oleander scowled. "So, no thank you. There's no way in, well, _hell_ that I'm going back to Hell. This is my home now, and I'm going to protect it." She saluted him mockingly. "Enjoy your march out, Hastur. That's as far as you'll get." She turned around.

That was as far as she got before Hastur grabbed her. Wrapped his hand around her long hair and used it to yank her backwards.

"Hey!" She snapped, struggling against his grip. "Let _go!_ "

"Did you think it would be that easy?" Hastur snarled, reaching into his pocket. He pressed his lips against Oleander's ear, filling it with his hot, rotten breath. "Never forget, Oleander, that I'm far above you. When someone above your station tells you something, you listen. You obey." His hand reemerged from his pocket, holding a syringe. He felt nervous just holding it, given its contents, but it would be worth it. "Too bad. You could've made it out of here in one piece if you'd only been a bit smarter."  
And with that, he plunged the syringe into Oleander's neck and emptied its contents into her veins.

Oleander's pupils, normally so dilated that her eyes were more black than indigo, shrank down to the size of pinheads. She threw her head back and let out a blood-curling shriek. But with a small twist of power, Hastur rendered it deaf to the humans nearby. The Poison Demon became a rag doll, going limp in his arms. Hastur waited for the rest to happen, for her body to melt away.

But it didn't happen.

He frowned, staring first at the unconscious female then at the syringe. It had been filled with holy water, which he'd threatened a human to get for him. He had injected it all into her neck, down to the last drop, and yet she hadn't died. She was just unconscious, not even discorporated. He tried to piece it together, when at last he did. Rolling up Oleander's sleeves got him the proof: there, in the crooks of both elbows and along the inside of the wrists, was a series of bright red pricks, scabbed over, from a multitude of injections.

The way to obtain immunity from a poison? Take small doses of it, day after day, in order to teach your body how to fight it. Oleander, the creator of every poison in the natural world, had known that better than anyone. Before releasing any of her plants or fruits into the world, she would take it herself, over and over, until a lethal dose didn't so much as trigger a cough.   
She had applied the same method to holy water.

Hastur growled in frustration. Fine. It looked as though he would need to settle for something else. But he couldn't be bothered to come up with anything else. Let the Dark Council decide what to do with her.

His decision made, Hastur slung Oleander over his shoulders and sank into the earth. Returning home.


	12. Demon's Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Oleander nowhere in sight, Crowley and Aziraphale must halt the War alone, their friend's biological weapon close at hand. Once again, the Earth is saved and the two sides are forced to stand down - permenantly this time.
> 
> Crowley brutally interrogates Hastur about the Poison Demon's whereabouts. It turns out, she's back in Hell. Not as employee, but as a doomed soul, punished in the exact same way as a human's soul would be. 
> 
> That is when Aziraphale and Crowley decide to make one of their most daring moves yet: go to Hell to find Oleander and bring her back to Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. The concept of Hell is very much taken from 'Lucifer', which was adapted from Neil Gaiman's 'Sandman' series. It's my favorite portrayal of Hell, which is why it appears here. Please let me know what you think!

Hastur was a Duke of Hell. This meant that anyone beneath him had to respect him...even though it was still within their rights to fight back should he try anything indecent. But other than that, his title was as significant as it was enjoyable. As cramped as the hallways of Hell were, everyone had to make room for him when he passed. Even though he still had to work, his tasks tended to be far less risky than the average demon's. His word also held a lot more weight than any random devil's.  
Which was why Oleander's rejection still prickled, as hot as a wasp's sting. Hastur always admired her, not only for her work but for her ferocity. He had tried to court her many times, but had always been met with polite rebuttals. Never discouraged, he'd believed that he would eventually wear her down. Ligur, his destroyed best friend, had always encouraged Hastur to keep at it. The thought of Ligur stirred something akin to grief in Hastur's shriveled black heart, but he smothered it. Now was only a time for joy. The War was about to begin, at last. And he had the Poison Demon, unconscious, in his arms. Ready to show her what happened when you bit the hand that pet you.

Hell was bustling with activity. Demons ran about from place to place, their armor clattering like pots and pans falling down the stairs. Orders were yelled. Casks of hellfire were juggled about. Beelzebub stood in the center of it all, commanding their troops through a dusty old megaphone. They were garbed in a charred suit of armor, with their helmet shaped like a fly. 

"Come on, you uzzelezzz maggotzzzz!" The megaphone filled their voice with static. "The War should begin before the hour'zz out! I want you all ready to go, or by Satan's polished horns I will smite you all myzzzzelf!" Their piercing blue eyes landed on Hastur as he wove through the crowd, holding his prize up for them to see. The Lord of Flies was still for a moment, contemplating, before turning to Dagon. Their second-in-command was not exactly in tip-top shape, but she could move her limbs, and that was all that was required to fight in the War. "Here," Beelzebub handed her the megaphone, "do what I'd do, but with that special touch of yours."  
Dagon grinned, visibly delighted by the task. "Yes, my Lord."

As the megaphoned commands continued to echo through Hell, Beelzebub sauntered over to Hastur, who bowed respectfully at their arrival. "My Lord."

Beelzebub's eyes immediately trained on Oleander's still face. "This really her?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Lovely." Without further ado, Beelzebub summoned a black dagger. They stepped forward, grabbing Oleander by the air, and pressing the tip of the dagger against her throat. Even from here, Hastur saw the blade gleam with holy water; he squirmed in spite of himself. "Wait!" He managed to blurt out before the dagger dove in. "That won't work: she's become immune to holy water too, just like the traitor Crowley."

Beelzebub stared at Hastur with wide eyes, their mouth agape. For a second they were stunned into silence. Then: "What?"

"Yes!" Fumbling to keep Oleander in his grip, Hastur reached into his pocket and held up the empty syringe. "Before going to meet her, I filled this with holy water. It took quite a bit of bribery, I assure you, but the human I sent in the church to get it wouldn't have dared double-cross me!" He shook his head, baffled. "And yet, all it did was knock her out. My theory is that she's been injecting small doses of it in her body. Look at her arms!"

With an annoyed hiss, the Lord of the Flies put the dagger away and did as Hastur suggested. The dim lights overhead revealed the constellation of red dots all across Oleander's arms. Growling, Beelzebub spun away. "Does _every demon_ who comes into contact with Earth go native?!"

"I'm not," Hastur offered.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. "Whatever." They patted Hastur on the shoulder. "Good job, Duke Hastur. You've caught the traitor. I'll be sure to give you a promotion after we've won the War."

Hastur beamed.

"But for right now," Beelzebub began to march off, with Hastur hot at their heels, "the Dark Council must be updated."

***

Ten minutes passed. Then, twenty. Then, thirty. Aziraphale's blue eyes kept darting towards the clock, willing the hands to stop moving. He cradled his third cup of sugared chamomile, which was doing nothing to calm his nerves. Crowly's incessant pacing wasn't doing him any favors, either. The demon had all but run a hole in the carpet with his feet, moving like a caged leopard while cursing under his breath. Aziraphale wanted to say the right thing to calm his fiance down, but he only had hollow words to offer, so he thought it best to hold his tongue.

Crowley broke down with a howl. "What the bloody hell's taking her so long?!"

"I - I don't know, dear." Aziraphale admitted miserably. "But...maybe she's fine, she's just...out." Those words sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and the angel cringed the moment he heard himself.

Crowley looked at his lover as though he'd just suggested they go swimming in Lake Karachay. "Without coming back first?!" He demanded in a voice gruff with worry. "And now of all times, when the War's minutes away?!" He shook his head. "No, something's happened to her, I know it!"

Aziraphale whimpered in his mug. "I...fear you might be right, my love." He closed his eyes. "I haven't been able to sense her magic for a while now. Have you?"

"No." Crowley shook his head, looking at everything without really seeing it. For a few beats, the lovers were caught in a tense silence. Then, the demon grabbed his coat. "Screw it, I'm going to look for her."

"What?" Aziraphale jumped to his feet, setting the mug down. "But what about the War?!"

"I'll be back in time!" Crowley yelled over his shoulder.

Aziraphale miracled himself in front of his fiance. Scared, but defiant. "My love..." He took both of Crowley's hands in his. "I want to go look for her, too. But we can't right now. The War is scheduled to start any moment now. If we aren't ready when the war horns start to resound, then the Earth is doomed." His eyes were filled with tears. His face, regret. "We have to prioritize the War. I swear to you, the moment it's taken care of, we'll find Oleander and bring her home."

"It could be too late by then!" Crowley protested.

"But how can we bring her home if the Earth no longer exists? If, while we're gone, the War is won - by one side or the other?" Aziraphale countered, tears leaking from his face. How he wanted to ignore the logic. How he wanted to go out with Crowley and search for their friend. But the War wouldn't wait for them to find her. And once the War started, there would be no stopping until someone won. If Heaven won, the angels would march Earth-wards and destroy them both. If Hell won, then the same would happen - but with a lot more torture and humiliation thrown in for fun.  
Crowley looked into his angel's eyes, saw the unyielding logic within them, and sighed. Defeated. He opened his thin arms, and Aziraphale walked into them. He broke down into sobs as he felt his fiance hold him close, one hand resting on the back of his head. Crowley hushed him, rocking them gently from side to side, even as he himself craved comfort. Even as terror rang inside him like a fire alarm, loud and all-consuming. "Oleander's strong," the demon told both his angel and himself, "she'll hold out until we can reach her." Aziraphale wailed into Crowley's shirt, burying his face into the dark silk. "I...I know," he struggled to say through tears, "I just..." He couldn't finish, too overwhelmed by emotion.

It didn't matter. Crowley already knew, because he felt it, too. He kissed the top of Aziraphale's fluffy head. The gesture had a slightly calming effect on him as well. 

They would have liked to stay like that for quite a while longer. Clinging to each other, offering what little comfort they had, for the sake of each other's (and their own) sanity.

But in that moment, just as Aziraphale's wails began to wane, they both heard it. Two sounds emanating from two different planes of existence, both drenched in blood-lust and righteous fury. They drawled out, long and deep, like the cry of an elk.

The angel and the demon met each other's eyes, thinking the same thing. For a second, neither dared to speak it, because doing so would have made it real.

Aziraphale plucked up his courage. Wiped his eyes. "The war horns."

***

Hastur and Beelzebub bowed lowly before the Dark Council, waiting for them to stop bickering and take notice of them. Oleander was spread on the floor before them like a picnic blanket, her still face catching the light. The Duke of Hell turned his head towards his superior. "My Lord," he whispered, "meaning no disrespect, but shouldn't we say something?"

"Sure," Beelzebub muttered coldly, "if you have a death wish."

Wilting, Hastur turned away.

In that moment, Wrath's voice went off like a machine gun. "Hey, look! It's the Poison Demon!" At last, the Seven Deadly Sins looked down at their guests. Exchanged looks that varied from outraged to puzzled.

Lust, who looked more than a little annoyed at having their angel-raping fantasies interrupted, spoke up. "What is the meaning of this?"

Beelzebub inched forward while still bowing. "My lordzzz." They gave the Dark Council a quick summary of what had happened, keeping their eyes averted the entire time. "We have come to inquire as to your wishezz in regardzzz to the traitor Oleander."

"You say she's become immune to holy water?!" Wrath let out a savage scream. "No fair! Why must all of our own traitorous kin become immune to our sole weakness?!"

"Calm down, Wrath." Gluttony chided through mouthfuls of Danish. "It just means we have to make an example of her in another way. Like, maybe starve her?"

"Yeah, that would be a punishment to no one but you." Greed countered, their pure-gold armour glittering in the candlelight. They looked at their brethren, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Look, the war horns have sounded and our troops are marching out. We all want to fight, especially in the name of our King Satan. So, why don't we just pick something and skedaddle?"

Pride raised their head. "I have an idea, of course." Leaning forward in their throne, they eyed the unconscious Poison Demon. "Duke Hastur, was it? You're the one who captured her?"

"Yes, my lord." Hastur grinned without looking up.

"Very nice. You'll have a promotion after the War. As to your captive..." Pride smirked. "You say she wanted to live among humans, yes? Well, then I think that it's only fitting that she be punished in the same exact way a human soul would be punished upon arrival." They arched their brows. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Beelzebub let a slow, dark smile spread over their boil-covered face. "Yezzz, my lord. I find that to be very fitting indeed."

"I'm so glad you approve." Pride sarcastically replied, rolling their eyes. With a snap of their fingers, the concrete floor turned to quicksand, swallowing Oleander in one gulp. Sending her off to one of the vacant cells, thousands of feet below them.

Darkly, Beelzebub wondered what the Poison Demon's eternal punishment would be. But they could find out later. Right now, they had a War to win.

***

Crowley and Aziraphale rushed out of the bookshop just as the sky started to darken. At first glance, it looked like a huge stormcloud passing over the sun. But upon closer inspection with a decent pair of binoculars, one could make out the shapes of ten million angels descending from Heaven, their white wings flapping and their armour glistening. Above them all was Gabriel, holding his spear over his head.

"Oh, bugger." Aziraphale muttered.

No sooner had the words left his lips that the ground beneath them began to quake. Pedestrians cried out in alarm, clinging to each other, as cracks began to spread across the asphalt. If one listened very closely, they could hear something over the rumble of the earth splitting. The sound of ten million pairs of feet trampling upward, getting louder and louder.

The couple shared a desperate look, knowing that they had to act. That the fate of the world depended on them, and what would happen if they failed. Crowley and Aziraphale reached for each other at the same time. Cupped each other's faces, their lips melding for what could be the last time. They cherished that moment, committing it all to memory, before abruptly breaking apart. Their wings - one black as midnight, another white as fresh snow - spread out behind them, the delicate feathers rippling in the growing wind. "You know the plan." Crowley cracked his knuckles. "You got the Demon's Dance?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale produced it from his waistcoat, holding it up for his fiance to see.

"Good. Don't waste a single seed." With that, Crowley threw both his hands in the air. Magic poured from his fingertips, saturating the very fabric of reality. As he did, he could feel its effects unfolding around them. All earthly sounds ceased. Cars froze, black exhaust stopping half-way out of their pipes. People became like statues. Every clock in the world stilled. 

For the Earth, and everything on it, time had stopped. 

But not for the soldiers of Heaven or Hell. 

The cracks yawned open, bleeding red-hot fire. With a yelp Aziraphale took to the air. The spot he'd been in caved away. There, amid the flames, he saw them. The Legions of the Damned, rising towards the surface. Taking a shaky breath, the angel took the pouch in both hands and opened it. Trying to calm his frantically-beating heart, Aziraphale tipped the pouch over in his open palm. As the seeds came forth, each one no larger than a grain of sand, the angel made a small miracle to keep the howling wind from blowing them all away. Then, when he had half of the seeds in his grasp, the angel closed his eyes. "God," he whispered, "if this is part of your Ineffible Plan, please bless this course of actions." Not knowing whether or not his prayer had been heard, Aziraphale blew into his hands, targeting the demons as they at last made it to the surface. They immediately began to cough and choke, some falling on their knees. Without waiting to see the poison's further effects, the angel steered his gaze upward.

"ANGEL!"

Aziraphale turned. A panting Crowley was on his hands and knees, spent. Even his black wings quivered. A quick once-over confirmed that the spell would hold - for now, anyway. Crowley's eyes met his, gleaming with determination. He held his hand out. "My turn!"

"Right!" The angel yelled back, tossing his fiance the satchel. Crowley managed to make it on his feet before snatching it. He kissed the pouch, and with a demonic intervention the incoming wind claimed the remaining seeds. Aziraphale flapped down to his lover's side, his white wings ready to shield them both. The two watched the small satchel twist and spin towards Heaven's army. Such a tiny thing against an insurmountable force. Yet even now, as it became the size of a pinhead, Aziraphale and Crowley could see the seeds spilling out. Could imagine them spreading across the celestial army, entering their vessels. Dissolving into the blood. Somewhere that wasn't Earth, somewhere far away, Oleander's magic flared. Crowley and Aziraphale felt it simultaneously, like a warm breeze on a chilly morning. They looked to each other, and knew that the deed was done. 

"Crowley, the traitor!" A voice had them both spinning on their heels. Aziraphale's wings closed in on Crowley, holding him close. Beelzebub emerged, emanating homicidal intent like the sun emits heat. "You are going to pay for thizzzzz!" But as they reached for their dagger, they froze. Just like that. Their body went rigid, while their face remained untouched. The Lord of the Flies blinked, then gritted their teeth, trying again. They grunted with effort, their face growing red, and yet they remained immobile from the neck down. All the demons did as their Lord did, and got the same infuriating results. "What the bloody hell is thizzz?!" The Lord of the Flies roared. 

"Yeah, my words exactly."

The couple again turned around. Directly behind them was the Archangel Gabriel, wearing a brilliant armour topped with a plumed, Roman-esque helmet. He, too, had his hands on his weapon, yet was unable to throw it. Even though he appeared calm, the angel was getting angrier by the minute. Aziraphale wilted slightly at the sight of him. Crowley wrapped his arm around his fiance, holding him close. "Aziraphale," Gabriel said almost conversationally, "would you mind telling me why our armies can't attack?"

"Right before we zzzzlaughter you." Beelzebub added, their face beet-red from effort and anger.

Gabriel pointed at the Lord of the Flies, as if to say, 'Yeah, what they said.'

Aziraphale gave his former superior a tight smile. "Well, Gabriel, the answer is quite simple." He cleared his throat. "You see, we couldn't allow you to start the War again. Earth is our home, and we'd rather not see it destroyed. That is why the three of us concocted a plan to stop you all...once and for all."

"The Poison Demon?!" Sandalphon snapped from behind Gabriel. "She have something to do with this?!"

"She most certainly did, Baldy." Crowley flashed them a grin. "Some of her finest work. It's called 'Demon's Dare'. Catchy name, isn't it? Basically, it's what we all dosed you with just now. It's a paralyzing agent that's released into the blood, as well as the nerves that connect the brain to the muscles."

"In short, it acts as a sort of 'shock collar'." Aziraphale continued, still smiling nervously. "When the agent senses a hostile act being transmitted from the brain to the muscles, it freezes the entire body until the impulse to act in a hostile manner has faded. And it feeds on the oxygen in your very essence, not just your vessels."

"So, long story short," Crowley gave a slight cackle, "for as long as you all shall live, you'll be on this invisible leash keeping you from your precious War! Even if you destroy these bodies and make new ones, you'll just be carrying the poison with you." He stopped, grinning darkly. "It's part of you now."

Gabriel closed his eyes, took a few calming breaths. Then, he slapped on a smile that looked more like bared teeth. "Okay, tell you what: you give us the antidote right now, and we'll make your deaths nice and quick. How's that sound?"

"There is no antidote." Crowley grinned wolfishly.

"What?!" Dagon screeched.

"Well, it was fabricated by the Poison Demon." Aziraphale countered, his anxiety fading. "And if she chooses not to give a poison an antidote, then it's her prerogative. She's done it before. For example, the solution is usually to vomit the poison back out again. The Romans did this sometimes, with feathers to stick down their throats. But I'm afraid there's no throwing up Demon's Dare. Like Crowley said, it's part of you now."

"That filthy whore." A low voice caught their attention. Crowley spotted its owner first, and moved towards him. Hastur, armed in chainmail, had a look of undiluted hatred on his ashen face. Growling, he spat, "When we get home, I'll feed her intestines to the rats!"

Crowley swung his arm. His fist collided with Hastur's cheek, sending the Duke falling face-down on the charred pavement. The demon, ignoring the angered cries of his former colleagues, towered over his fallen foe, panting heatedly. "That was for everything you did to me in Hell, too, you dull bastard." He gave Hastur's ribs a good kick before backing away again, morbidly satisfied. When he reclaimed his spot at Aziraphale's side, he felt the angel take his hand. It soothed his fiery spirit, balancing out the hatred with love.

Beelzebub snarled, trying again to fight against the poison. All of the demons did. To no avail. On the other side, Heaven's angels had no luck. The lovers stood squarely in the middle, watching their former sides struggle against their friend's invention. It was like unlike anything they'd ever seen on Earth, which was truly saying something. The only event that came close was an incident from a few decades ago, when the couple had seen a few unobservant pedestrians walking straight into a newly-paved section of the street, effectively gluing themselves into place. Crowley had laughed himself sick while Aziraphale had sent a quick miracle their way, allowing the sobbing people to slide out of their shoes and skip onto dry land, leaving their footwear behind for the construction crew to take care of. But this, while more humorous in a way, was also far more sinister because they knew perfectly well that they were officially in Heaven and Hell's bad books, for good. If Demon's Dare failed in any way...

Letting out a heavy sigh, Gabriel called out, "Hey, you! Beelzebub!"

The Lord of the Flies looked up from their fruitless efforts of breaking free. 

Gabriel crooked a finger. "Can I have a word?"

Beelzebub, probably figuring that talking to the Archangel would be less infuriating and pointless than trying to fight the paralyzing agent, answered, "Fine!" They managed to walk with ease, as though the spores had never entered their bloodstream at all. But they knew better than to try and fight. Instead, they walked across the road, shooting Aziraphale and Crowley venomous looks along the way. They made it to the angels' side of the sidewalk, with many of the celestial beings backing away from them in disgust.  
Gabriel held up a hand, calming his soldiers, as he tilted his head farther off. His purple eyes were on Crowley and Aziraphale. Beelzebub, following his gaze, allowed themselves to be led further away.

The angel and the demon watched their former bosses, trying to listen but finding the conversation to be protected by magic. Uh-oh.

***

"Well," Gabriel said, "here we are again."

Beelzebub growled. "If I could, I'd grind Crowley's bonezzz to dust."

"And I'd do worse to Aziraphale, that chubby dunce." Gabriel scowled. "But, look, that's not the point. I know nothing can replace the War. But since that's just not an option anymore, I wanted to offer you something that could let us both walk away satisfied."

Beelzebub crossed their arms. "What in the Nine Circles could you possibly have to offer me, angel?"

"Glad you asked." Gabriel grinned. "I just noticed that the architect to this poison isn't here." He arched a brow. "Know anything about that?"

"Wow, there's actually a brain rattling around that gray head of yours." Beelzebub bluntly noted. "But, yes. Duke Hastur caught Oleander shortly before the war horns sounded. She's in Hell now."

"On whipping duty for your souls?" Gabriel suggested.

"No," something akin to a smile tugged at Beelzebub's face, "in one of the cells." Seeing Gabriel's reaction, the smile widened. "Yes. The Dark Council decreed it. Oleander wanted to live among humans, so her punishment is to bear the same punishment as our human souls would. And that is where she will spend the rest of eternity."

Gabriel gave a low whistle. "Not bad, if I do say so myself." He leaned forward slightly, eyes flitting towards the couple. "Here's what I'm thinking, though: what if we got rid of all of our traitorous former employees in one fell swoop?"

Beelzebub tilted their head. "I'm listening."

Gabriel chuckled, delight oozing out of every pore. "Well, here's a question for you: how do humans normally get rid of rats?"

***

As they waited for the conversation to end, their hearts walking on a tightrope, Aziraphale and Crowley held hands. But try as he might, the demon found his thoughts straying. The harder he tried to fight it, the louder it got, until finally he heard himself hissing in exasperation. Reluctantly letting go of his fiance's hand, he marched back towards Hell's army. Before everybody's stupefied eyes, most of all his lover's, Crowley grabbed Hastur by the front and pinned him against the wall of a shop. "Where's Oleander?" He growled.

Hastur grinned. "Where she belongs."

"Don't give me that!" Crowley shook the Duke like a doll. "You said you'd feed her intestines to the rats when you got back to Hell. So where the Heaven is she?! In which department?!"

Hastur spat in Crowley's face. A slimy, putrid jet of filth. Crowley roared with rage and threw him to the ground. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried, breaking into a run.

" _Where is she?!_ " Crowley bellowed, landing punch after punch on Hastur's face. " _ **Where?!**_ "

Hastur spat out a mouthful of blood before grinning nastily at his assailant. "I'll never tell you!"

"Oh, yeah?!" Crowley's fists hailed down on Hastur's head, pounding his flesh into the road and spilling his blood like water. He hit him harder and harder, taking every cry of pain as an invitation to do his worst, and he did. Tears began to run down his face. Memories clouded his vision, blinding him from the present. As his body worked on autopilot, Crowley relived everything Hastur did to him during his three Hell years as a prisoner. Every inflicted wound. Every humiliation. Every psychological break. Every act of cruelty. They all flashed before his eyes, one after another, like daisy chains.

"Crowley, _stop!_ " Soft arms wrapped around Crowley from behind, dragging him away from a bleeding, sobbing Hastur. Crowley fought and twisted, hissing like a snake, before at last freeing himself. Aziraphale met his eyes, his own filled with fear and compassion. Like water on a fire, it extinguished Crowley's rage. Only pain remained, so many wounds torn anew and bleeding freshly. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, as he felt his lover embrace him. "Sssh, sssh," Aziraphale kissed his temple, running a hand through his coppery hair, "it's okay, love. I'm here."

"Agh...she...in Hell..."

The lovers turned to Hastur, who was finding it challenging to talk through the bloody pulp that used to be his face. "She's...in Hell...in one of the cells."

Crowley's eyes widened. "What?!"

"Listen up!" Beelzebub's voice echoed through the motionless world, calling on angel and demon alike. Crowley wiped his tears away as his former boss spoke. "Unfortunately, we have to put off the War indefinitely." They yelled louder to be heard over the lamentations of both armies. "It's a fact! None of us can fight! That is why we must call off the War." They paused. "Furthermore, in light of the two traitors Hell has had to deal with, I am officially revoking all Earth Travel permits to demons. From now on, temptations shall be done through nightmares and whispers alone. If any demon is caught roaming the Earth, they will be punished with the same fate as Oleander the Poison Demon. Now, move out!"  
The demons hissed, reluctantly sheathing their weapons and beginning their descent back to Hell, casting many withering looks at the couple on their way down. Hastur needed to be carried down. Beelzebub lingered, gesturing for their people to move.

"Same here!" Gabriel raised his hand, devoid of a weapon. "Angels, move out! And don't look so glum! By having your vistas revoked, you're all being spared from the sinful temptations of Earth! Plus, you all get a weekend off work!" The angels did seem to perk up at that, but they too cast many death glares at Crowley and Aziraphale on their way back to Heaven. Gabriel, too, waited until the last of his soldiers had gone. He met Beelzebub's eye, and the two shared a nod. 

In a flash, they, too, disappeared. At the very same time, Crowley's spell broke. The clocks' hands began to move again. London's noises filled the air, deafening after the eerie silence of timelessness. People jumped, but when they realized that nothing was out of place, they all shrugged it off and went about their day. Cars honked their horns at Aziraphale and Crowley, cursing at them as they were forced to give them a wide berth. Numb, they moved onto the sidewalk. Still stunned by what had happened. As they went over their new reality, they found each item on the list harder to digest than the next one.

One, that they were the only the only supernatural beings on Earth again. 

Two, that no other angel or demon would ever walk the Earth again.

Three, that they had won. 

And four...

"Oleander's in Hell." Crowley muttered, his eyes like marbles. "In one of the cells."

Aziraphale stared at him. "What?"

Crowley shook his head miserably, feeling ready to cry at any moment.

"Oh..." Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley's skinny waist, supporting him. "Let's get back to the bookshop. We can talk more there." 

Crowley nodded, devoid of strength to do much else.

Twenty minutes later found them both sitting on the couch, the bookshop as silent as a crypt. Outside, life went on as it always did. How close humanity had come to being wiped out, again, and how ignorant it was of that fact! Within these walls, filled as they were with books and maps and antique illustrations, a very different reality took place. And it was one that neither the angel nor demon had ever anticipated.

Aziraphale didn't want to broach the subject, lest it push his fiance closer to the edge. But Oleander was in danger, and he knew that they had to save her. Simple as that. Carefully, as though he were handling a delicate manuscript, the angel took his lover's hand and held it in both of his. "My darling...what, exactly, is it like in Hell? For the sinners, I mean?"

Crowley let out a sigh that all but emptied his body of air. He removed his glasses and tossed them on the coffee table in front of them. Behind them, his eyes were like chunks of yellow glass. Beautiful, but cool. Empty. Staring off into the ether, the demon spoke. "I...I've never had to deal with them directly. Never had to go down there, punish them and the like. But I know how the cells are designed. They adapt to whoever's thrown in, like how water takes on the shape of whatever container it's put in."

Aziraphale listened, enraptured as well as terrified.

The demon continued, his voice oddly hollow. "There's some of what the Bible says, of course. Being tossed about by strong winds. Being forced to lie in slush. Fighting with other souls in the river Styx. That's all there, in the Nine Circles." He paused. "But most of the cells are a lot more personal. They make the person inside relive their worst moments over and over again. Their traumas. Their guilt. Their lives gone wrong, a dark, warped reflection of what it once was. It goes on like a broken record."

The angel felt as though his insides had been crudely scooped out with a wooden spoon. For a few moments he was stunned into silence. Then, he dared to ask, "How do they get out? The souls, I mean."

Crowley shook his head. "They can't."

"What?" Aziraphale breathed out.

"Not until they believe they no longer deserve it." Crowley replied, still speaking flatly. "And I've never heard of any soul getting out. Not even once. And, the best part?"

The angel didn't dare ask.

"The doors aren't locked. Because they don't need to be." Crowley hung his head. His face crumpled. Aziraphale embraced him just as he broke down, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. "She's doomed." He kept saying those two words over and over, unknowingly breaking Aziraphale's heart a little bit more each time he did. The angel held onto his lover, let him cry as he rubbed his back. All the while trying to think of a plan. 

He started to. But before he could voice it, Crowley did it for him. "We have to bring her back."

Aziraphale dared a small smile, despite being more terrified than he'd ever been in his life. "Yes. And we will. Because we are on our own side."


	13. Othalam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley hold hands as they descend to Hell, using their memories and thoughts of Oleander to help guide them to her location. After a rather unpleasant journey they find her in the Eighth Circle: Fraud. Stuck in her fully demonic form, with black wings that she can no longer hide, she wanders a rotting, ruined version of Aziraphale's bookshop that is filled with dead plants and photographs capturing her unhappiest moments. As Crowley said, it is her life gone wrong.
> 
> The couple tries to undo the effects that Hell has had on their friend, but it isn't long until they realize the true danger they are in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by 'What Dreams May Come' and, on one occasional, the 'Lucifer' TV show.
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think.

In all his time reading human text and, later on, learning how to book-bind, Aziraphale had come across many descriptions and interpretations of Hell. Mostly, humans thought it to be a literal lake of fire, where the sinful burned forevermore. Dante's version was the go-to example in that department, as well as (in the angel's humble opinion) the most interesting. Spiritists believed that upon death, a soul is attracted to spiritual colonies of similar vibrations and stayed there until it had to be reborn in the mortal plane. The Six Lokas in the Tibetan Book of the Dead had a rather different interpretation, describing the different levels of consciousness after death. Aziraphale had read all of them, and found them all to be interesting in their own right. 

But never in a million years had Aziraphale ever thought that he might someday have to _go_ to Hell, especially given his species.

And yet, here he was. Standing before a gaping hole in the earth that Crowley had just opened. Even from this distance, the angel could smell the sulfur. But his fear was of little consequence compared to his concern for his fiance. Crowley was trying to hide it, as usual, but Aziraphale had known him for six thousand years. He knew what the demon looked like when he was putting on a front, no matter how rock-solid that front appeared to everyone else. Underneath the stern expression, Crowley was terrified. Aziraphale could almost taste his fear in the air like, well, a snake. He slipped his hand in his lover's, and winced when he felt it shaking. "Darling...I..."

"Don't." Crowley's voice was hoarse, and he avoided eye contact. "Don't even _try_ to suggest that you go alone. She's my friend, too. And you wouldn't last two seconds down there by yourself." 

The demon was right on both accounts, and Aziraphale knew better than to argue. Once Crowley made up his mind, that was it. All the same...

"Sweetheart," Aziraphale began, "if it gets to be too much, we're turning back. Alright? I must insist on that, at least."

Crowley turned, making his sunglasses slip down his nose. He stared at his fiance with wide, incredulous eyes. "And leave Oleander down there?!"

"Of course not!" Aziraphale replied, shocked that Crowley could even think such a thing. "It wouldn't be us giving up, merely retreating. I love her as much as you do, dear, you know that. But I can't risk losing you, and I know that Oleander wouldn't want you breaking on her account." He tightened his hold on the demon's hand. "Please. Promise me this, at least."

Crowley hesitated, eyes betraying a thousand emotions, before he gave a reluctant sigh. "Alright." He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on the angel's lips. Sealing his promise. Pulling away, he pushed his sunglasses back up. "We're not going in the same place you were taken to, last time. In fact, where we're going, there almost aren't any demons. That's because there don't need to be: the Nine Circles pretty much run themselves."

"I see." Aziraphale nodded, the gears in his brain turning. "And how large are they, dearest?"

"As big as they need to be." Crowley held up a hand. "Again, this is only what I've heard, but the Nine Circles keep expanding to make room for the doomed souls. So, as far as we know, they could be as big as planets."

Aziraphale winced. "Well...it's a good thing we can sense each other, then. I imagine, though, we'll need something else in such a vast location?"

Crowley nodded. "Normally, a demon would just use the file of the soul in question. But since we don't have that, we'll have to use something else." He faltered, his brow furrowed in thought.

The angel brightened. "Eureka! We can use our memories of her to create a form of flare, allowing us to sense her in the sea of souls."

"Well, it wouldn't be quite a sea, angel." Crowley replied. "More like a planet's worth of dead sinners, but yeah, good idea." He allowed himself the flicker of a smile. "A memory, huh? Okay, let's pick one." He closed his eyes, searching for a clear, sharp memory. But it wasn't that easy. There were so many to choose from, so many flitting about like fireflies. Crowley looked around, hands at the ready, until at last he caught one. Cradled it close, feeling it warm his fingers. Opening his eyes, he looked to his lover and saw a similar expression reflected back at him. "Ready, angel?"

Aziraphale nodded, tightening his hold on Crowley's hand. "Let's bring her home."

Crowley tried to soothe his pounding heart. "Right." 

And with that, they descended into the hole, allowing the darkness and the smell of sulfur to coil around them. The air became cold, almost frigid. They walked, hand-in-hand, anchoring each other, as the hole sealed itself up behind them. Leaving them in the dark. "Oh," Aziraphale said, "I suppose I should have brought a torch." But even as he said this, he felt his eyes beginning to adjust, turning the blackness into a deep gray with darker outlines. Feeling a bit better, despite the cold stone of fear lodged in his stomach, he moved closer to Crowley. "How are you, love?"

"I...I..." Crowley's voice immediately set Aziraphale's alarm bells off. "I'm not going to lie, angel; I'm starting to break already." Aziraphale instinctively held him tighter as he continued. "They...they tortured me like this, sometimes. Kept me in the dark for what felt like ages."

"Oh, honey." Aziraphale stroked Crowley's coppery hair as their feet crunched on the dry earth. "I'm here, it's alright. Just remember one of Dr. Wu's techniques, alrght? Focus on your breathing." Crowley began to gulp in deep lungfuls of sulfur-laden air, through his mouth, and exhaling through his nostrils. Remembering Dr. Wu's instructions, he focused on that and nothing else. Closing his eyes, he tried to forget - for the time being - about their mission, where they were going, and what dangers lay ahead. He cleared his thoughts, thinking only of filling, and then emptying, his body of air. Aziraphale rubbing warm circles into his back helped, reminding him that he wasn't alone. At last, he felt the sense of panic beginning to fade, and he was able to look into Aziraphale's eyes. "I'm...okay, angel."

"Oh, I know you are!" Aziraphale exclaimed, his voice filled with pride as well as relief. He cupped Crowley's cheeks and gave him a gentle, loving kiss that expelled the last few dregs of panic. Pulling away, the angel pressed their foreheads together. "I love you, darling."

"Love you too, angel." He sucked in a breath, straightening. "Now, let's walk."

And so they did, putting one foot in front of the other, while talking about trivial things. The weather. Wine that Aziraphale still had leftover. Books. Coming events. Matters that, however unimportant, helped calm their hearts. How much distance did they cover? For how long, exactly, did they walk down a tunnel to Hell as though it were downtown London? Neither had any idea. Crowley's watch had frozen at the precise moment they'd left Earth, and when they looked behind them, they only found an earthen wall. Blocking them from turning back. If they hadn't been supernatural entities, that would have been their first big clue as to how doomed they were. As is, it was more a minor inconvenience. 

Finally, something shifted. The two could feel it coming closer with every step they took. Cold emptiness gave way to dark activity, trapped forever in a loop. Aziraphale had never sensed anything like it, and now he was the one who needed comfort. Crowley gladly gave it, wrapping a protective arm around his fiance. "It's okay, angel," he whispered, "I'm here."

A ruddy glow appeared in front of them. Small at first, but growing as they moved towards it. The sound of clanking metal, gunfire, and screams grew louder and louder, and it wasn't long before the angel and the demon smelled blood in the air. They shared a look before, at last, stepping into the red light.

What awaited them was something that no human, no matter how supposedly bloodthirsty, should see. 

The angel and the demon were standing in a field as far as the eye could see. Every blade of grass was soaked with blood, and the sky was like burnt tomato soup: red, with black blotches scorched into it. The air smelled of gunpowder and blood. But they weren't alone. Thousands of soldiers were there with them, fighting like wild animals even as they lost blood and limbs. Every era was represented: there were Roman soldiers, Gauls, soldiers from the American Civil War, and both World Wars, along with every other conflict that had ever caused bloodshed. These men and women had fought and died on the battlefield, only to wake up and keep fighting eternally, never knowing peace or rest. Aziraphale tunnelled into Crowley, into the warmth and safety he provided, as he took in the carnage. "Oh, my word."

Crowley gave a grim nod. "Yeah, I've heard of this one. If we stay too long, we'll wanna start fighting, too, so let's move on."

As the words left his lips, a soldier suddenly collapsed before them, moaning with pain. It was a kamikaze, they realized, and his skin was burning away in the same blast that killed him. Tears were leaking from his eyes even as his eyes, too, turned to jelly. Aziraphale immediately knelt over the soldier. Crowley put a hand on his lover's shoulder. "Leave him, angel."

Aziraphale looked to him with such sorrow that Crowley was very tempted to take it back. "But, but..." Tears filled those beautiful eyes.

Crowley shook his head. "This man's been dead for decades. He's been through this more times than either of us can count. Even if you heal him now, he's just going to die again later." He sighed. "I know you want to help. But they're beyond help."

"Except for Oleander?" Aziraphale asked in a small voice.

Crowley bit his lip. "Yes. Except for Oleander." Even though, in all honesty, he had no idea. They were here out of hope, not expectation. Inhaling deeply, he gently brought his lover back on his feet. Around them, the carnage continued. Eternally. Bloodily. Closing his eyes to it, Crowley said, "Alright, let's focus on Oleander. The memories we picked. Otherwise, we won't know where to go from here."

Aziraphale nodded. "Right." He, too, closed his eyes. 

Simultaneously, they peered into their metaphorical hands, into the memories they had caught. Their light temporarily blinded them, filling their faces and hearts with warmth. Soon, the chaos around them died down to a hum.

_Crowley sauntered past the automatic doors of the supermarket, grocery list in hand. He didn't stop to see if Oleander was behind him, in part because he wanted to go home as soon as possible. But also because it had only been a week since their heart-to-heart in the park, and while things had definitely improved, he still felt a little on edge around her. The doors closed behind him...only to open again. He turned, confused, to see the Poison Demon poking an arm out at the doors, marvelling at how they opened, before retracting it and watching them close. She turned to him with a wide grin. "Magic!"  
"Yeah, more like motion sensors." Crowley tilted his head towards the aisles. "Come on, Aziraphale wants to cook pot roast tonight and we don't have enough potatoes. And," he glanced down at the list, "biscuits. Of course."  
Oleander looked around in unabashed amazement. "We can find all that...here?"  
"Yeah." Crowley confirmed, placing a hand on his hip.  
"But what is this place?" Oleander insisted, unable to focus on any one thing.  
Crowley rolled his eyes again as he took her claw, pulling her along. "It's basically a modern hunting ground, I suppose."  
"Wow." Oleander continued to admire everything they passed, resembling a kid at the zoo. Crowley would have been lying if he'd claimed that he didn't find the display...kind of cute. Despite the Poison Demon's slow pace, they managed to collect everything and put them in a trolley. Just as they were nearing the cash registers, the demon suddenly started. "Shit, I'm out of aftershave." Oleander followed him, pushing the trolley along, as they entered the aesthetics aisle. He'd just been looking for his favorite brand of aftershave when the sound of Oleander sputtering had his head turning. "Oh, Satan." He groaned. Oleander stood there, an opened jar of cocoa butter in her claws. She was spitting on the floor as though she'd just taken a bite out of moldy bread. "Oh, that's revolting!" She set the jar down, wiping her chin dry. Crowley stared at her. "You actually thought you could eat that?" Oleander gave him a look. "Well, yeah! It says 'cocoa butter'! That sounds delicious!"  
Even though they wound up having to buy the jar that wound up being used for more...illicit activities between him and Aziraphale, Crowley laughed all the way home. Much to Oleander's chagrin._

Crowley opened his eyes, and he knew where to go. For now, anyway. Taking his angel's hand, he guided him out of the field and down a worn path. Slowly, the conflict left their ears and noses. Silence and trees ruled this place, as well as an abundance of fog. If Crowley didn't have a thread of memory, of sensation to guide him, then he surely would have gotten them lost. Every once in a while he felt Aziraphale looking behind them, back at the field. His heart swelled at his angel's kindness, his compassion. Heaven had no idea what they'd lost.  
This tread did not take nearly as long as the one in the tunnel. Before too long, they found themselves on a riverbank, the stones crunching beneath their feet. If not for everything, Crowley would have sworn that they were back on Earth. A rowboat was tied to a stump, waiting for them. He turned to Aziraphale. "Did you miracle this?" He jerked his thumb at the boat. The angel shook his head. "I most certainly did not. But, I suppose, if nobody is using it..."  
Crowley smirked. "Are you suggesting we steal it?"  
"No, not steal!" Aziraphale rebutted. "Borrow!"  
"I'm corrupting you. At last." Crowley snickered as he climbed into the boat, undoing the knot mooring it to the stump. Aziraphale hopped in, sitting across from his lover. They both took an oar, and began to row their way down the river. "Do you think this is the Styx?" Aziraphale asked between his panting, beads of sweat already forming on his cherubic face.

"Nah," Crowley answered, "probably just a river. One of the many landscapes of Hell."

"Well, it's not that bad, is it?" Aziraphale asked with a shaky smile. "The river's not of blood, for one, and no damned souls."

"Yet." Crowley muttered. Aziraphale pressed his lips together but made no reply.

The couple rowed down the seemingly endless river, guided by Crowley's memory. They went down many twists and turns, but aside from Aziraphale needing several breaks, the trip was uneventful. Nothing tried to attack them, except for maybe Aziraphale's lack of physical prowness. But when they looked to the shore, they were reminded of where they were. Suicide victims hung from tree branches like grotesque displays on a butcher's window, their faces bloated and blue. Passing by a swamp, they saw many people sinking into the mud with seemingly no awareness of it. They just stood there, staring at nothing, as the black mud swallowed them up. Once, they spotted what must have been a murderer, covered in blood and dragging his victim by the hair. Crowley watched it all with a stoic face. In all honesty, it wasn't much worse than what he'd witnessed in his six thousand years on Earth. Humanity was full of beauty, but it was full of suffering, too. This was merely a dark mirror of it all, held up for anyone to see. Aziraphale, on the other hand, tried to be strong. But every time he saw someone in pain - in other words, everyone they came across - his heart bled and he had to physically fight the urge to jump overboard and go help them. He looked at them all, searching their faces, and wondered what on earth they must have done to deserve such a grim fate.

Soon, the river spilled out into the sea. But it wasn't the sea that could be found at South Downs, azure waters populated by seagulls and scenting the air with sweet salt. No, this was a black, metallic sea under a torrent of storm clouds. Immediately, both the angel and the demon performed a miracle to reinforce the rowboat and make life vests appear on their bodies. 

That was when the boat lurched, sending the couple toppling down. Groaning, Crowley rubbed his head. "What happened?"

"I don't-" Aziraphale was interrupted by another violent surge. This time, a bucketful of seawater poured in their boat. Crowley's snake eyes caught sight of a pale hand, and a memory clicked into place. Replacing the one that had been leading them to Oleander. "Um, angel, I think I know where we-"

The boat began to jolt about, like a toy in the washing machine, as more and more water spilled in. Fists broke through the wood, filling it even more. Aziraphale dared to look overboard, and cried out. Hundreds of bloated corpses glared back at him, snarling at him, spitting as him, as their rotting hands tore the boat to pieces.

Spinning around, Aziraphale yelled, "Crowley! Let's fly!"

"Gladly!"

They grabbed each other's hands as their wings unfurled, cutting through the stormy air. But just as they were about to take off, a swollen hand grabbed Aziraphale's ankle. The angel barely had time to turn around when he was yanked forth, tearing his hand from his fiance's. "CROWLEY!" He screamed, terrified, as more slimy hands grabbed him. Seizing him by the shirt, the legs, the hair. In seconds, he was submerged in the icy water.

"ANGEL!" Without a second thought, Crowley dived in after his lover. The cold water was a shock to his system, and he felt himself getting triggered. Remembering his time in the cell. But his love for Aziraphale overpowered his terror, and the demon surged forth. Following Aziraphale as the angel was dragged under by a swarm of drowned souls. Crowley summoned forth a wave of power, sending it flying towards them. The souls screamed, bubbles rising from their mouths, as they were cut to pieces by the pure demonic power. Aziraphale, freed, struggled to swim but had little luck. His eyes, wide with terror, met Crowley's. He reached out. Crowley did the same.

The moment their hands touched, their powers did as well. Sending a shockwave across the sea. Causing time itself to shudder.

***

Seagulls. Thousands of them. Maybe millions. Screeching. Cawing. Coming from every direction. That was the first thing that registered as Aziraphale resurfaced, blinking his way back to consciousness. The next thing he recognized was the sand beneath him, and the water lapping up around his legs. Rubbing his eyes, the angel sat up. He was lying on a beach, but it was unlike any he'd seen on Earth. The sky was an unforgiving gray, swollen with clouds and seagulls. He'd never seen so many of them in the same place. The water, too, was gray, as was the sand. But aside from a few hungry-looking birds, there did not seem to be danger here. Aziraphale looked down at himself and grimaced. He was drenched from head to toe, most of his clothes ruined and torn, and he was missing a shoe.

But that was a small price to pay for escaping with his life. And it was all thanks to Crowley.

Sensing his lover's magic right beside him, Aziraphale turned his head. Sure enough, an unconscious Crowley was lying on his side just a foot or so away, his glasses gone and his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and made his way to the demon, crouching over him. A quick gander revealed, to his relief, no injuries. His chest was still rising and falling, and he looked almost peaceful. The angel cupped his fiance's face, stroking his warm cheek. "Crowley?" He whispered. "Crowley, my love. Please, wake up."

Crowley let out a noise that sounded something like, "Mhmmmhmhm." Sluggishly, his eyes opened. Immediately meeting Aziraphale's. With a breathy sigh, Crowley shot up from the sand and wrapped himself around his lover, holding him so tightly it almost hurt. Burying his face in Aziraphale's soft neck. The angel returned the embrace, breathing him in. Grateful that they were both here, alive, and together. Pulling back, the two shared a passionate, desperate kiss. Their wings reemerged, soaked and bedraggled with seaweed but still magnificent. They curled around each other, blocking out the outside world of gray and gulls. Leaving a space only for the lovers. They held onto each other for what felt like hours, reluctant to let go. But at last, they felt the sand trickling down the hourglass and were forced to part. With one last deep kiss, they rose. Exchanged miracles to mend their clothes and dry their bodies.

"I'm afraid I...I lost it. The memory." Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Do you...mind?"

"Of course not, dear." Aziraphale stroked his lover's cheek before closing his eyes. Summoning forth the memory he'd chosen back on Earth.

_Two weeks after that night in the park, Aziraphale, Crowley, and Oleander were taking a walk through the bustling, magnificent Soho. All around them, people were shopping, texting, exploring, and taking pictures. It was all so...perfect. Aziraphale cuddled close to his partner, who was all too happy to return the embrace. But just to be safe, the angel held another demon's claw. The Poison Demon had revealed herself to be quite the wanderer, and Aziraphale had no desire to spend another afternoon looking for her. Especially because he was beginning to truly care about Oleander and didn't want to fancy the notion of her lost and alone in a world she had barely started to understand._  
_That was when a man's voice, amplified by a microphone, reached their ears. "My brethren! We are not alone! Devils walk among us, wearing human skin as a disguise!" They soon spotted the voice's owner: a middle-aged man in a cheap suit, a microphone in his hand, holding up a sign reading 'DEMONS WALK AMONG US!' Aziraphale and Crowley, who had come across this sort of thing before, paid the man no heed. Oleander, however, broke out into a grin and approached the man. "Sir, you have no idea how right you are!" The man stared at her, perplexed, as she added, "But don't worry, we come in peace."  
The man - the street preacher - smiled in thanks as a passenger-by handed him some pocket change. "Bless you." Turning back to Oleander, he asked, "Have you seen any demons?" In his microphone, of course. Oleander smirked, "Every morning in the mirror."_

__

__

_"Exactly!" The street preacher exclaimed, now speaking to anyone willing to listen. "We all have demons inside us! Just look at this world, how sinful it is! It is all because of demonic influence!"_

_Oleander's jaw dropped. "Whoa, hey!" She held up a claw. "Don't blame all that on us! I mean, yeah, we've done our fair share, but you humans do plenty on your own!"_

_Aziraphale prepared to step in, but Crowley stopped him. When he looked to his lover, baffled, he was met with a smirk. "Hold on. I want to see where this goes."_

_The street preacher approached Oleander, dropping the microphone. "Look, lady, keep walking."_

_Oleander scowled. "Excuse me?"_

_"I'm trying to make some money here!" The street preacher held up his bucket full of pounds and quid. "So, if you could move along and let me work, that'd be great."_

_"So..." Oleander's black eyes widened. "You don't really believe anything you're saying, do you? You're just trying to get rich off us." Anger seeped into her voice._

_"Off of demons? They deserve it." The street preacher snarled. He was about to turn away when Oleander grabbed him by the jacket, spinning him back towards her. "You might as well get your money's worth, right?" She then mutated her face into something that would give even the most hardened criminal nightmares. The street preacher let out a scream, eyes bulging. "S-s-stay away!" He yelled, backing away, holding out a cross. Oleander stood where she was, smirking, while the street preacher pointed at her and yelled at the pedestrians. "She's a demon!" When the pedestrians only laughed and clapped, he went on, panicking. "No, you don't understand, this isn't a performance! SHE'S a demon!" He dropped his bucket of money, immediately losing the attention of everyone around him. He then fled for dear life. Oleander smirked at her handiwork before rejoining the angel - who was stunned - and the demon, who was howling with laughter. "Ice cream?" She suggested._

Aziraphale smiled at the memory, his heart twisting in his chest, as he felt it. A pull. Like a very long string tied to his waistcoat, tugging him towards an unseen destination. "Alright," the angel spoke in a slightly choked-up voice, "we can go now, dear."

"Good." Crowley replied, looking down at his feet. "I think I've had my fill of this place."

"What...?" Aziraphale took one look around, and he, too, had his fill. Looking down, he took his fiance's hand and pulled him along. But even as he avoided looking up, he could still see it. Hundreds of damned souls, lying in broken heaps on the sand, covered in blood and bird droppings. Squirming and whimpering as the birds fed upon them, pecking and clawing at their organs.

***

The couple traded the beach for grassland and, after that, what appeared to be a post-apocalyptic version of London. Everywhere they looked, they saw ruin and death. Heavy smog filled the air, leaving an oily aftertaste in their mouths. Crushed cars, their windows devoid of glass and their tires flat. Lampposts bent over, their lights long gone. Abandoned homes and stores, their windows boarded up. Cracked sidewalks. Gutters stuffed with garbage. Street signs and store names had been scratched, replaced with the same word over and over: **FRAUD**. Black flakes of ash fell from the sky, drifting down like snowflakes. Their once familiar surroundings were desolate, lifeless, and empty. Somehow, that scared them more than anything else they'd seen.

That was when they found it. The end of the line. Stopping, they took it in. "Oh, my..." Aziraphale breathed out.

It was the bookshop. Or rather, a decaying version of the bookshop. Branches poked out from the broken windows, and a canopy of dead leaves crowned the roof. The writing _'A.Z. Fell & Co'_ was scratched out; like with the street signs, it read **FRAUD**. The front door hung on its hinges, the steps chipped away. Beyond it, both the angel and the demon could feel it. That familiar brand of magic, wild and tangy. 

Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale's, trying to keep his own from trembling. "You ready, angel?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes."

With that they walked inside, broken glass crunching beneath their feet. Once they were inside, their eyes again adjusting to the gloom, the angel let out a little whimper. The inside was even worse. Books were strewn all over the floor like trash, pages torn out like mangled intestines and covers hanging by a thread. The pillars were cracked and veined with dead vines. All the lights were extinguished. The carpets were so faded that their designs were impossible to distinguish. Furniture was broken and torn, stuffing poking out. All the statues and paintings that had called this place were ruined: smashed and torn, the frames reduced to crumbs. An antique mirror was shattered, its pieces gathering before it like frozen tears. All of Oleander's potted plants were dead, shriveled things in cracked vases.

By contrast, a tree was growing in the center of the bookshop. A giant, bulbous thing, easily ten feet wide and more than double that in height, its leaves poking through the ceiling. Small fruits similar to mangoes hung from its branches, but they both knew that one bite would easily discorporate them.

Photographs were smashed, and upon closer inspection, the images were unfamiliar. One showed Oleander on her knees, weeping in her hands, as a dozen or so young women - her pupils - were hanged, drowned, and burned, their faces contorted with agony. Another showed the church in Tadfield, the door sealed shut and the windows splattered with blood. To Crowley's horror, he found an image he did recognize: that night at the Blue Monkey, with him telling Oleander that they weren't friends. He looked away, his face burning with shame. Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley's hand, even as he struggled to keep his own tears in check. "Oleander?" He called out.

Following suit, Crowley cupped his free hand over his mouth. "Sis!"

They continued to call, even as the bookshop swallowed . A shadow shifted behind them. Spinning around, they spotted a figure curled up in the corner, just out of sight. "Oleander?" Aziraphale's voice cracked. "It's okay, dear! It's us, please!"

"Who..." Oleander's voice was small and very scared. "Who are you?"

Aziraphale and Crowley blinked at the same time, stunned. Sharing a look, they stared back at the figure. She remained crouched in the shadows, yet they could feel her eyes on them. Waiting.

Unsure of how to answer, Aziraphale spoke again. "I...we're not here to hurt you. We're...friends."

"I don't have any friends." Came Oleander's clipped reply.

That was when Crowley understood, and it filled him with fury. He wanted to curse the Dark Council, Satan, and Beelzebub, make them pay. Maybe they would, once this mission was over. Shooting Aziraphale a look, he moved forward. "Well, we'd like to be." He told Oleander. "We...just moved here. We're your neighbors."

There came a rustling sound. Feathers. The figure shifted. Rising. Slowly, cautiously, emerged from the shadows. The couple barely avoided gasping out loud. 

It was Oleander. And yet, it wasn't. Her wings, the same pitch-black as the rest of her species, dragged on the floor behind her like a cape. Her skin had always been sickly pale, but some of the damned souls they had come across had had healthier hues than she did. Her veins were black, filled with poison instead of blood. Her indigo irises were glowing like lanterns, contrasting her expanded pupils. She was dressed in the same robes she'd worn during her time working for Hell, but they were as drab and threadbare as everything else here. When she parted her lips, she revealed teeth stained black from centuries of imbibing poisons, becoming immune to every single one of them. It was her demon form. Full and exposed. But she didn't look threatening. Just sad. Helpless. "I...I'm sorry for how I look." She spoke shyly, avoiding eye contact, as if unused to talking to other people. "They won't go back in." She added, gesturing to her wings. 

"Oh, not to worry, dear," Aziraphale smiled even though he felt like he could cry at any moment, "you're beautiful."

Oleander's eyes flickered. For the briefest of seconds, there was something there. Then it was gone, and she was shaking her head. "No. Nothing about me is beautiful." She hugged herself, turning away. "Why are you here?"

"We told you." Crowley told her, patiently. "We just moved here. We wanted to see if we could, you know, become friends."

"Oh." Oleander seemed to have forgotten already. Her wings twitched. They were mottled, shedding feathers as they moved. "I...don't know why you'd want to move here. There's no electricity in the neighborhood. No running water. No gas. Nothing." She inhaled shakily. "Nobody lives here but me. Well..." She glanced over her shoulder. Those glowing eyes rested on the tree. "There's the tree. I...grew it. For company. Everything else died, no matter how I tried to revive them."

"It's a lovely tree." Aziraphale kept smiling, hoping to lower the female demon's defenses. "What kind of a tree is it?"

"It's a _Cerbera odollam_. Othalam. Also known as a 'suicide tree'. Its fruits bear a potent poison often used for suicide, and murder." She shook her head. "But I live off its fruits, and I'm just fine. Don't know why, though."

That was when it dawned on Aziraphale, too. This was Oleander's punishment. To be trapped in a ruined version of her new home, with none of the good memories attached to it. All of her plants, dead, with the exception of a giant tree that obscured everything else. Her knowledge of her status, of her title, of her powers? Gone. She didn't remember her newfound family, and she barely knew who she herself was. A shell of her former self, a painful antithesis to the vibrant being they knew her to be. She was forced to stay in her most inhuman form. A punishment for having tried to pass for human, no doubt.

It was just as Crowley had said. Her life gone wrong.

Oleander hugged herself again, shirking under their gaze. "Don't you have to leave, or something?"

"We just got here." Crowley reminded her, gently. "We just moved here, together...along with my sister."

Oleander flinched, saying nothing.

"You'd like her, I think." Crowley stepped forward, moving slowly so as to avoid scaring her. "She's a bit of an oddball, and she's got a temper, too. A little trigger-happy, you could say. But she's got a good heart, and she's a very sweet person." He paused. "She's good with plants, too. Especially poisonous ones. It's like she made them, she knows them so well."

Oleander avoided his gaze. Her wings crept around her. Shielding her. "Huh." That's all she said.

"She said she's always admired me," Crowley continued, his heart beating like a hammer against his ribs, "for being my own person. For not being defined by my work. That's what she wanted to do: to be an individual, to develop interests and skills and to see the world. To...make friends." He swallowed, guilt seeping in. "With me, too. She really wanted us to be friends. But at first, I rejected her. Treated her poorly, if I'm to be honest. Made it very clear that I saw her as an intruder. She even defended me and my partner against some bigot, and all I could do was snap at her in response."

Oleander's wings twitched, again, but other than that she reamined statuesque.

Crowley pressed on. "I...our colleagues did awful things to me, and I blamed her. Every time I looked at her, I was reminded of that time. But she had no choice. We worked for some dangerous people. They would have killed her if she'd tried anything. But she helped where she could, when she could. I didn't see that. I just saw the times where she didn't do anything at all."

"You were right, then." Oleander whimpered. "She was weak."

"No, no!" Crowley shook his head. "My sister is strong, and fierce when it comes to me and my partner. She was just being careful. It took me a while to see it, and we finally became friends. I...I've come to love her. Quite a lot." His voice broke. "In many ways, she reminds me of myself. But the parts I love about her the most are the parts that are only hers."

Oleander dared a look over her shoulder. Tears were starting to leak from her glowing eyes, making them shine even more. Crowley's heart softened at the sight. He took a step closer. Oleander didn't take a step back. She just stared at him, her eyes searching his face. 

"Oleander." He said her name gently, like a caress. Her eyes widened even more. "Please." He reached out to her. His hand rested on her claw, which was as cold as marble. "Let's go home."

It all happened at once. Through their touch, they saw it all. Everything they'd ever done and said together. Every shared experience. Every cry. Every laugh. Every word. It all flashed before them in rapid succession. 

Oleander let out a terrified scream. Breaking away from Crowley, cutting off the contact. "STOP IT!" She howled, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. "GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!"

Crowley could only stand there, helpless and broken, as Aziraphale joined him. The angel held his hand, but both their eyes were on Oleander, who'd crumbled to her knees and was moving as far away from them as she could. Sobbing hysterically. Aziraphale tried to reach out to her. "Oleander, sweetheart-"

"Go AWAY!" The Poison Demon shrieked between wails. "You're not real!" She repeated this, over and over, like a mantra. A prayer to save her soul. " _ **You're not real! You're not real! You're not real!**_ "

The demon and the angel stared at her, then at each other. Thinking the same thing. In trying to save her, they were only hurting her. Should they carry her off, kicking and screaming, back to Earth? Or would that only hurt her more? Break her beyond repair?

After everything they'd endured to get here, was it really too late? Was she truly Hell's now, too out of reach?

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Let's try one more thing." He proposed, for both their sakes. "And if it doesn't work..." He didn't say it. Couldn't. Crowley's lips became a thin line. He gave a shaky nod. 

As one, they knelt before Oleander, who was pressing herself against the wall like she was trying to faze through it. Still sobbing quietly to herself. The sight, the sounds, all of it, was almost more than they could bear. Crowley spoke. "Oleander...there are a few things we need to tell you, before we go. In case we...won't be able to, next time."

Oleander didn't acknowledge them in any way, but they could tell she was listening.

"I'm sorry for how I treated you when you first came to Earth." Crowley began. "I'm sorry that I blamed you for what Hell did to me, even though you healed my wounds every time. I'm sorry for not being a better friend, for not protecting you the way you protected us, more than once. I'm sorry for laughing every time you did something that human society finds strange, or unusual."

Aziraphale squeezed his fiance's hand, picking up where he left off. "I'm sorry too, Oleander. I'm sorry for being so soft that I needed you to save me from Uriel and Sandalphon. I'm sorry that I didn't always know what you wanted, or needed. I'm sorry for being soft. I'm sorry for all the things we won't be able to do together." He paused, blinking back tears. "But I'm grateful for everything we did do together. Trips to the cinema. All those nights we stargazed. That breakfast on the roof, watching the sun come up. All those nights, spent sleeping with you snuggled between Crowley and I, and how moved I was that you loved and trusted us enough to be so vulnerable in our presence." He had to stop, tears flowing down his cheeks.

Crowley continued. "I'm going to miss a lot of things, too. Driving in the Bentley. Teaching you things about the human world, and watching you learn. Listening to Aziraphale read to you while you were curled up on his lap, like a child. And...your cooking, even. It was horrid, I'm telling you, but the effort you put into it was worth it. And Christmas." He swallowed. "I'd have liked to have another six thousand Christmases with you, Oleander, but thank you for making our first one the best imaginable." He wiped his eyes. "Thank you for healing me while I was in Hell. Thank you for always being honest with me. Thank you for your kindness, your sweetness, your eagerness to live. I'm going to miss it all so much."

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley, holding him close. With some hesitation, he reached out. Placed a hand on Oleander's back. Right between her wings. She flinched but didn't move away. "We're a family, Oleander. We love you. Please, never forget that. Even here." Now on the verge of full-on crying, he pulled his hand away. Turned away, rising to his feet. Crowley watched him before giving Oleander one last look. "We'll be back. I promise." Closing his eyes, he rose and began to follow his partner towards the door.

Oleander, huddled against the wall, slowly stopped crying. Her features softened. Blinking, her eyes ceased to glow. Her breathing coming easier, she turned. Looked to the figures in white and black.

The front door slammed shut, making the angel and the demon jump. Aziraphale looked to his fiance. "Did you...?"

"No!" Crowley replied.

More slamming. They turned to see every window sealing itself shut, reclaiming the broken glass, as the blinds went down. Noises overheard showed the roof repairing itself, forming around the suicide tree. 

That was when they felt it. Something oppressive, all-encompassing, pressing down on them like stones. Gasping for air, Aziraphale and Crowley stumbled to the ground, trying to fight the influence but finding no luck. They could feel their powers and their lives draining away, as though they were being bled on a physical and a mystical level. They met each other's eyes, desperate, and joined hands. 

It was all coming together. It all made sense now. What Beelzebub and Gabriel had discussed on the day of the averted War. Why they had seemingly given up so easily. They had known that Crowley and Aziraphale would come looking for Oleander. In fact, Beelzebub had probably pulled some strings to make it so they survived the trip. They had been meant to find her. To see her so broken. Right before Hell trapped them in there with her forever, weakening them to the point that escape was impossible.

But there was one thing that neither side had taken into account.

"G-guys?" Oleander squeaked, slowly rising. When she saw them on the floor, barely breathing, the Poison Demon all but flew towards them. "No, no, no, no!" Every time she said it, the word came out louder. Kneeling over them, she began to cry fresh tears. Stroking their faces. Shielding them with her wings. "Bro? Zira? No, no, no, please." Her powers, triggered by her emotions, began to hum. The very air vibrated with it. All the dead plants returned to life. The tree swelled with it. "Guys, no, please, stay with me! GUYS!"

And then, everything stopped.


	14. Oleander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months have passed since Aziraphale and Crowley literally went to Hell. Life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeere it is! The ending! The conclusion! The final chapter! I am very happy that I was able to write this story, and while I would have liked to include more bits of Oleander learning to integrate into the human world, with our favorite angel and demon assisting her along the way, I didn't want to constantly grind the plot to a halt. But I hope that I still included enough to be satisfactory for everybody.
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think, please!

It was an early spring evening in Tadfield, and a wedding was about to take place.

A web of warm lights hung between the trees, casting luminescence upon the rows of seats and the path of white rose petals. At the end of the path was an arch made of oleander, its long thin leaves and light pink flowers a stark contrast to the dark trees overhead. A small collection of tables and chairs, complete with bouquets, fine silver, and white tablecloth, was positioned a few feet away, with catering due to arrive shortly. It was magical, in every sense of the word. But the setting, however charming, could not defeat the ceremony itself. The binding of two souls, forever. 

The small collection of guests had already claimed their seats, and in attendance of the grooms were chattering amicably. Newton Pulsifer and his wife, Anathema Device-Pulsifer, sat in the middle row, dressed in matching dark blue outfits and tenderly holding hands. The Youngs had claimed the row directly behind them. Mr. and Mrs Young wore the same set of clothes that they would wear at a dinner party, and they had managed to convince Adam to put on a tie. Dog sat at his master's feet, tail wagging with excitement. The Them, too, had received an invitation, and they were all seated with their parents closely enough so that they could talk and joke as they waited. Even Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy had managed to come in from South Downs, with the former being dressed in full Witchfinder attire befitting his title. No one bothered to tell him how silly he looked, of course, because he looked so proud to be wearing those badges. Dr. Wu, the therapist of one of the grooms, sat nearby, her dark-and-silver hair collected neatly into a bun and a smile on her lips. She had been following her patient for the last three months, and she was beaming with pride at how much progress he'd made. After everything he'd been through, he deserved this, to be happy with his beloved.

There was only one person sitting in the front row. Sheathed in dark green, with her long hair braided with flowers and her feet bare, sat a woman who appeared to be about thirty. She was white as chalk, with a curvy figure, a strong jaw, and thin lips. Her eyes were large, with dilated pupils, with dark shadows underneath them. Her long hair, similarly, had streaks of silver woven into the dark brown. She was smiling from ear to ear, revealing crooked but white teeth. it was all she could do to keep still. Today was dedicated to honoring her brother and her future brother-in-law, both of whom she loved with every cell in her body.

Right on cue.

One of the grooms appeared out of nowhere. One could say he appeared as if by magic. He was a plump, middle-aged man with shocking white hair and heavenly blue eyes. He was dressed in a white and gold tuxedo, with a primrose tucked into the breastpocket. He stood at the altar, fumbling his hands together, his face betraying his anxiety. The whole world knew him as Mr. A. Z. Fell, but to everyone here, he was Aziraphale. And to a smaller, more selective handful of people, he was Aziraphale the angel. Best friend. Lover. Brother-in-law.  
He probably would have gone on fidgeting until the music began to play, but the woman in green was having none of it. Rising from her seat, she managed to catch him off-guard by hugging him from behind. Aziraphale started, but when he realized who it was, he relaxed. "Oh, hello, darling." He rested a hand on her arm, snuggling into her embrace. "Are you alright?"

"I should be the one asking you that." Oleander pulled away, with Aziraphale turning to face her. Adjusting his bow tie for him, she arched a thick brow. "You okay? You looked like your photo should appear in the dictionary next to 'jittery'."

Aziraphale chuckled at the jape. "Thank you," he said as Oleander's claws left his now perfect bow tie, "and...well, I am feeling rather...jittery, as you said." He offered her a nervous smile. "I mean, it's finally happening, after all isn't it? After six thousand years of friendship and pining, and about a year of being in a relationship, it's finally happening." He gave a breathy laugh. "This is simultaneously the most marvelous and terrifying thing I've ever had to go through. I both want it to happen and to run away as far as I can."

Oleander chuckled. "You're just nervous. But it's like you said: it's six thousand years into the making."

Aziraphale chewed his bottom lip, still looking very ill at ease. 

Sighing, Oleander asked, "Do you love Crowley?"

"More than I've ever loved anyone, or anything." Aziraphale's response was firm. Immediate.

Oleander smiled, satisfied. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

The angel stared at her for a long moment, taking her in and thinking of everything they'd gone through. How he and Crowley had gone to Hell to bring her home, and she, in turn, had saved them from it. None of them had clear memories of that day. One minute they'd been in the ruined version of his beloved bookshop, suffocating under the weight of Hell, and the next they were coming to in St. James Park. Oleander had been there with them, with the same silver streaks and dark crescents that she had today. Physical signs of the strain that escaping had had on her. From there, it had been a steady healing process, all of them there for each other. Crowley had kept going to Dr. Wu, and his panic attacks and flashbacks began to lessen. Oleander spent the first few weeks quiet and by herself, but slowly came back to her normal self...with a few minor alterations. Aziraphale was there for both demons, feeling happier and more complete than he ever had when working for Heaven.

And now, here they were. Aziraphale's heart swelled with love and warmth, which he happily expressed by thanking Oleander, again, and trapping her into a gentle embrace. Oleander accepted it, closing her eyes and nestling into his chest. 

That was when the music began to play. When Aziraphale turned, the sight took his breath away.

Crowley stood at the end of the rose petal path, dressed in his trademark colors of black and red: a black tuxedo with a red shirt and dark red trousers. His hair, which had since grown back to the length it had been before his discorporation, was tastefully styled with pomade. Beneath his shades was a smile as bright as a star. 

"Here we go." Oleander grinned, pecked Aziraphale's cheek, and scampered back to her seat. 

The music played, in gentle harmony with the evening's crickets, as Crowley made his way down the path. As every step brought him closer to Aziraphale, his best friend, his one true love, Crowley felt himself growing lighter and lighter. To the point that he was almost confident that he was walking on air instead of solid ground. Tears were already prickling in his eyes, thankfully remaining hidden by his sunglasses. 

This was it. The start of something new. A promise, thousands of years into the making, even though neither had ever known it yet.

At last, he joined the angel at the altar and the music fell into silence, leaving only the sounds of nature.

Oleander was there with them not a second later. Shooting her friends a quick look, she spoke up for the sake of those not blessed with supernatural senses. "Everyone, we are gathered here this evening to celebrate the marriage of Anthony J. Crowley the Third, my beloved brother," Crowley blushed, winking at her, "and Aziraphale Fell, my best friend." Aziraphale gave her a tender smile. Oleander continued. "There are many things about this world that I don't know about. For example, the reason for reality television still baffles me, and I still can barely tell the difference between Instagram and Twitter." This got a few laughs. "But what I do know is that these two are made for each other. They're the perfect yin and yang, each one baring a bit of the other in order to make it work. Theirs is a relationship composed of love, respect, and openness. And when they're drunk together, hilarity ensues." More laughter, this time involving the grooms. Oleander straightened. "I understand both grooms have written their own vows. Bro," she raised her brows at the copper-haired demon, "would you like to go first?"

"Sure thing, sis." Crowley reached into his pocket, and froze. He'd written the vows out that morning, and he was certain he'd put them there. Where was...?

Oleander pressed a slip of paper into his hands. When he flashed her a grateful smile, she responded by playfully sticking her tongue out at him. Crowley unfolded the paper, cleared his throat, and began to read, punctuating almost every sentence by looking into his fiance's eyes.

"Aziraphale, we've known each other for a long, long time. An eternity, it seems."

The angel chuckled even as he felt himself fit to bursting.

Crowley continued. "It all started in a garden walled off from the rest of the world. You were in charge of guarding its gate, while I was there to cause trouble. From the get-go, we were opposites. And yet, we still managed to talk. Civilly, calmly, as though who were were didn't matter. In that conversation, I learned about how kind you can be, and in that moment, I was yours."

Aziraphale swallowed hard, trying to suppress his tears.

"All my life, I've lived behind walls. I'd put on facades, playing the roles that I needed to play, and doing the jobs that I was told to do. I did them wearing a hundred different faces. What I didn't realize, though, was that in the process, I made a wall between me and myself. I played myself for a fool, tricked myself into believing that I could do everything by myself, as I always had, and that I didn't need any help. But you broke down every barrier. You laughed with me, ate and drank with me, cried with me. You saw me at my best, you saw me at my worst, and you still stuck around, holding my hand through the storm. And when push came to shove, you showed me how important I was to you; more important than your fears, than your uncertainties, than your...faith. You're the kindest, sweetest, most generous being I have ever had the honor of meeting, and I promise to spend the rest of our lives making you feel as loved and as safe as you have always made me feel." Crowley smiled, not needing the paper to conclude his vow. "I love you, Aziraphale."

"Oh, sweetheart..." Aziraphale wiped his eyes with both sleeves, dampening them both. Oleander, having foreseen this, provided the angel with a tissue. "Thank you, honey." With that, he blew into it with a sound that resembled a trumpet, much to the amusement of the Them. Their parents hushed them, too entranced by Crowley's tender vows to care about Aziraphale getting emotional. Some of them were on the verge of crying, too.

Oleander grinned, turning to Aziraphale. Patted his back. "Whenever you're ready, Zira."

Aziraphale nodded, finished dabbing his eyes, and took a deep breath. He stuffed the used tissue into his jacket. Unbeknownst to anyone, he miracled it out of existence. Summoning his own vows, he cleared his throat. "Anthony, I spent a good portion of my life in service. I served those I worked for, always convinced that they were better than me - and they were more than happy to encourage that mindset. I was told to do my job and never ask questions, and for a long time, I did. But meeting you started the end of all that. I spoke to you, even though I knew that doing so could land me in huge trouble, and I found that I had more in common with you than any of the people I worked with. Even though they had told me that your sort was to be avoided at all costs, I couldn't help but spend time with you. Every time I ran into you, I felt happy and safe, and I never wanted those moments to end. And in between those times, when I was left to my own devices, I thought about you always. About how smart you were, how fun and sweet, even though you refused to admit it. I became more and more fond of you, until one night you saved my books from being destroyed. That was the moment my feelings for you shifted into something else. Something deeper, and more complicated, but more fulfilling."

Crowley smiled at the memory. If only he'd known that night, he'd have demanded a kiss in return for those books.

Aziraphale continued. "You taught me to start thinking for myself, and that is something I will always be grateful for. You taught me what love is, what companionship is, simply by being yourself. You are my best friend, my lover, my most trusted confidant, and no matter what happens in this life, I am not afraid. I don't think I'll ever be afraid again, because I know that we'll face it together, and that is more than good enough for me."

Madame Tracy wailed from her seat, forcing Sergeant Shadwell to hold her in comfort. He did, albeit with quite the eye-roll.

Crowley swallowed hard, never looking away from the angel.

Oleander grinned. "Okay. I'm pretty sure what the answers will be, but still. Aziraphale Fell, do you take this man to be your lawfully-wedded husband, to honor and to love until time itself grinds to a halt?"

"I do!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

Oleander wiped her eyes. "Anthony J. Crowley the Third, do you-?"

"Yes." Crowley grinned.

Oleander pouted. "You didn't let me finish!"

Crowley shot her a teasing look. "What's the difference? You knew what I was going to say anyway!"

Oleander rolled her eyes. "Fair enough. The rings, please!" Mr. Young nudged Adam, who was already running towards the altar. Grinning widely at the couple, he reached into his pocket and produced the same little box that Oleander had given him a few days ago for safekeeping. "Congrats, guys." He said as he handed it over. "Thanks." Crowley muttered as he took the box. "Thank you, dear boy." Aziraphale thanked, bowing his heas slightly. Adam raced back to his seat, practically glowing with satisfaction. Facing each other, the two men carefully slipped the rings onto each other's fingers. Such a simple gesture, yet it contained all of the significance in the world. Oleander wiped her eyes. "So, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may ki-"

Once again, she was interrupted. This time, by both of them. But Oleander didn't even care, for their kiss was the most passionate and loving that she had ever seen. 

The entire crowd jumped to their feet, clapping and cheering, as the couple continued to kiss. An entire minute passed before they pulled away, grinning at each other like a pair of fools. Fools in love. "Alright, enough with this mushy crap!" Crowley called out, even though his arm snaked around Aziraphale's thick middle. "Let's party!"

The crowd cheered again, reinvigorated by the Them's approving caws. 

***

As evening turned to night, the wedding went on like a sweet dream. Catering arrived moments after the 'I do's, and there were three different cuisines for the guests to choose from: sushi, Italian, and traditional English. And dessert, of course: everything from crepes to ice cream was served, satisfying even Aziraphale's sweet tooth. Music played from the speakers, scrolling down a playlist that the grooms had chosen the week before. There was plenty of Queen, naturally, but also a healthy sprinkling of classical music. The guests filled their plates, danced, and talked, letting the hours pass as though they were minutes. 

The newlyweds themselves danced until they were both dizzy. But, unsatsified with this, they glanced at Oleander and nodded in unison.

Aziraphale went first. Giving her a gentlemanly bow and a warm smile. "My lady," he said, offering her his hand, "may I have this dance?"

Oleander laughed, stunned, and slipped her claw in his offered hand. "I'd be honored, Zira."

"Oh, splendid!" Aziraphale led her to the dancefloor. "Now, do you know how to do this?"

Oleander's expression said it all.

"Well, this can count as your human lesson for the day." Aziraphale encouraged. "Now, you put your other hand on my shoulder, and I put my free hand on your hip." He explained this as he moved their hands along. "And then, we sway." And sway they did, in gentle harmony with the music. Oleander let out a little laugh, amazed at their dance, before meeting his gaze with damp, dark eyes. "This is...wow." She shook her head. "But why? You married Crowley, not me."

"I'm still getting used to it." Aziraphale simpered. "But not to worry, dear. He'll ask to dance with you next."

Oleander shook her head. "But why?"

The angel's face softened. His hand tightened a little around her claw. "Well, we both felt it necessary to make you feel appreciated. Loved. Just like any other day." 

Oleander swallowed hard, trying not to cry. It had been loving words like these to bring her back. To shake off Hell's cobwebs from her brain. To remind her who she was, and who they were. She closed the distance between herself and the angel, standing on her tip-toes, and kissed his cheek. The angel all but glowed with happiness. A tear ran down Oleander's cheek. Aziraphale quickly wiped it away. She spoke softly, looking down. "When I think about what you must have gone through, down there..."

"Sssh." Aziraphale hushed her, gently. "It's alright."

"Please let me say it." Oleander whispered, once again meeting his eyes. Her own were swimming with emotion. "Aziraphale, I...you and Crowley literally went to Hell to save me. Me, someone you'd only known for a few months!" She shook her head. "I just want you to know that I'll never forget it. And...I never thought people could do things like that, for others." 

Aziraphale pressed a kiss on Oleander's forehead. "You would be surprised what people are willing to do for those they love." Pulling back, he smirked. "And for the record, you got us out of Hell. I'd say that's a feat worth praising, too."

"Yeah." Oleander lowered her gaze. 

The angel, realizing what she was thinking about, pulled her closer. They continued to gently sway, letting the music dictate their movements. When the song ended, and they pulled away, the two of them shared a meaningful look.

"Pardon me," Crowley materalized before them, "but I believe I owe my sister a dance." He raised his brows. "If she's up for it."

Oleander chuckled. "I'd love to." She and Aziraphale shared another quick hug, and as he began to move towards the catering table, the angel made sure to kiss his husband. By the time they pulled away, moving in opposite directions, they were both so red in the face that they may as well have been sunburned. 

As the next song started, Crowley and Oleander assumed the same position that she and the angel had held before. But not before Oleander reached out and removed Crowley's sunglasses from his face. He jolted. "What're you doing? You want to give the guests a heart attack?"

Oleander smirked. "Nobody else is dancing except Glasses and Pretty Girl over there." She jerked her chin at Newt and Anathema, who moved like water against the soundtrack. "And I don't think they have eyes for anyone but each other." Her gaze lingered, somber. "I would like to find someone like that, someday."

"Ah," Crowley grinned, "you're a catch, I'm sure you won't have any trouble."

Oleander let out a bashful chuckle. "That'd be nice. I don't even know if I like boys, girls, both, or neither yet!" Crowley raised both brows, prompting a response. "Well, yeah! I just..." She shrugged, "...never got the chance to find out." Crowley peered at her, the edge of his mouth curved, before squeezing her hand. "Hey, everybody's gotta learn sometime. You'll be fine."

"Thanks." Oleander smiled at her brother figure, grateful for his support. For a few beats they did not speak, instead focusing on their dance moves. Oleander kept stepping on Crowley's shoes, but since she was barefoot (as always), he barely felt it. He watched her, once again noticing the silver in her hair and the dark shadows under her eyes. "So," he asked, "any news?"

Immediately knowing what he meant, Oleander deflated slighly. "I'm still immortal, if that's what you're asking. I nicked myself while sewing together this dress last week, and the cut was gone before the pain even started."

"Well, that's good." Crowley smiled, trying to encourage her. "I'd hate to have a sister, only to lose her."

Oleander chuckled, but her smile was short-lived. "As for the rest..." She shook her head.

Crowley pressed his lips together. As far as they could tell, neither Heaven nor Hell knew that they had escaped. In order to ensure that it stayed that way, they had spent their first few days back on Earth scouring the bookshop for anything that might be useful. Their salvation had arrived in the form of an old spellbook written by a few genuine witches, all of whom had met their fate before Agnes Nutter. One such spell had been known as the 'cloaking incantation', designed to conceal one's magical presence, making them pass as human. Or, in the angel and the demon's case, innocuous. From now on, if any Heavenly messangers took pictures for the Earth Observation Files, or any demon decided to roam the Earth, they would no longer be able to detect the lovers' presence.  
For Oleander, the issue had been a bit more...personal. As far as they could tell, she had used a huge amount of power to get them out of Hell. But when they had returned to Earth, they had found her with none left to spare. Her wings were gone, her magical presence had all but disintegrated, and Oleander had found that she could no longer make plants grow at will. She'd spent three nights crying about it, with Aziraphale and Crowley hushing her and cradling her close. But eventually, she had come to accept it. 

Even so, Crowley found himself stroking her cheek. "You probably just hit burn-out." He told her. "Your powers will come back, someday."

Oleander shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you know what? It's okay if they don't." She smiled. "I spent thousands of years having them, and they didn't make me happy. Now, I am. And if losing my powers is the price I had to pay for that, then I'd pay it over and over again."

Crowley echoed her smile, touched by her words.

"Only," Oleander frowned, "there's one thing I don't quite know yet."

Crowley tilted his head. "I'm all ears."

"I'm still immortal, but I don't have wings anymore. No magical presence. No power over plants, poisonous or otherwise. So..." She shook her head. "...What am I, then?"

Crowley chuckled. "Haven't you figured it out by now?"

Oleander blinked at him. 

Crowley pulled her a little closer. "You're a fun, smart woman with a love for plants, an eagerness to learn, and an addiction to life. You're a person who's still learning about herself, and who's got eternity to find out. You're a loyal friend, and fierce when it comes to your loved ones. You're someone with a knack for sewing, as the dress indicates; honestly, I thought you'd bought it at first. You're a person so amazingly loveable, you got two supernatural beings to go to Hell to save you. And you're so strong, you saved them in return. You're Aziraphale's best friend, besides me, obviously, and you're the best sister a demon could ever ask for." He leaned in, whispering in her ear. "You're Oleander."

Oleander grinned through her tears before tackling Crowley into a tight hug. Laughing, he hugged her back. They proceeded to dance like that until the song ended.

After that, the three immortals spent the night eating and joining the crowd. Crowley chatted with Dr. Wu, with both of them keeping the conversation casual. Aziraphale sipped shnapps with Madame Tracy, who regaled him with stories about her new life with Shadwell. The Them invited Oleander to join their games, everything from swordplay with branches to building a literal ice cream mountain. Adam demonstrated the tricks he'd taught Dog, and Oleander asked Pepper all about women's roles in modern society. She, in turn, spoke of the oppression she'd personally witnssed, even bemoaning her years of wearing a corset. It was a very productive conversation indeed.  
At some point, Newt wanted to go to the computer to adjust the playlist, but Anathema swiftly led him away with the promise of another dance. 

Crowley and Aziraphale watched the young couple, gently holding hands from across the table. They then transferred their gazes to each other. "They are a lovely couple, aren't they?" Aziraphale inquired, popping a salmon nigiri in his mouth.  
The demon nodded. "Yeah. A witch and a witchfinder. Who'd have thought it?"  
Aziraphale chuckled. "That doesn't sound nearly as unlikely as an angel and a demon." He lifted their joined hands, kissing Crowley's. "I love you so much, darling."  
"Me, too." Crowley's eyes twinkled behind his sunglasses. "Husband."  
The word sent shivers down the angel's spine. "Say it again. Please."  
Crowley smirked. Leaned across the table. Their noses were centimeters apart. " _Husband._ " He whispered. Unable to resist, Aziraphale closed the gap between them. Their kiss started off as tender but increased in intensity. Soon, both supernatural beings were beginning to feel something other than tender affection and devotion to each other. Crowley's yellow eyes scanned the crowd. "Do you think anyone would mind if we...slipped away, for a bit?"  
"Oh, you naughty boy!" Aziraphale giggled as they stood, hand-in-hand. "Let's not take too long though, hmm? Otherwise, it would be rude."  
"Of course." Crowley grinned, his eyes dark with lust, as he all but carried his husband out of sight.

Oleander spotted them leaving, and smirked through her mouthful of sushi. 

***

By the time the three immortals stumbled back to the bookshop, it was well past one in the morning. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale turned the lights on as they stepped inside. Crowley immediately crashed on the couch, landing face-first in a pillow. Oleander stretched, cracking her neck, and began to undo her braid. Looking up, Crowley moaned. "No, it took us two hours to braid it!"  
"No, that was the fast part." Oleander reminded her brother as her hair tumbled free. "It took you and Zira two hours to _comb_ it. And the brush, broke, too!"  
"Yeah," Crowley groaned, kicking off his shoes, "you owe me a new brush."  
Oleander blew a raspberry at him. Crowley gave her a look. "What are you, two?"

In response, Oleander leaped onto Crowley and started to him him with one of the couch cushions. Crowley simply burrowed deeper into the sofa, using one arm to try to swat her away.

Aziraphale watched the display, chuckling behind his hand, as he miracled Crowley's shoes back in the closet upstairs. Then, as he waited for the siblings 'fight' to end, he went about locking the front door and turning on the burglar alarm. Oleander and Crowley had at this point ended their squabble, instead opting to lie on the couch together. The latter was already half-asleep, seemingly unaffected by the cushioned assault. "Okay, bro," Oleander kissed his cheek, "I'll buy you another comb."  
Crowley smirked, wrapping a lazy arm around her. "Thanks, sis. Get one for yourself, too. Really."  
Oleander gave him a playful slap on the chest, earning her a tired chuckle.

Aziraphale yawned as he shrugged off his coat. As he draped it over his arm, the angel admired the fabric. "Such a pity this is a rental," he stated, "but I really should buy something like it."

Oleander grinned. "Maybe I can make one for you. Turns out, I'm quite the seamstress."

Aziraphale simpered at the suggestion. "I'd be honored, my dear. Thank you!" He yawned again. "Oh, my. I am going to sleep like a stone tonight, I know it."

Crowley grinned at him. "Not surprised. You certainly got your exercise in for the night." Oleander snorted.

Aziraphale turned bright pink. "Hush, you!"

"Never." Crowley smirked. 

Oleander suddenly brightened. "Before we all go to bed..." Rolling out of her brother's arms, she made a beeline for the kitchen. Specifically, the unopened wine bottles. Holding one up, she said, "Nightcap?"

The angel and the demon were so delighted by the prospect of wine that they didn't even bother informing her that night caps usually consisted of brandy, bourbon, or Irish cream. (Although beer and wine could serve the same purpose.) They sauntered sleepily over to the table as Oleander uncorked the bottle with one of her claws. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley had three glasses materialize before them. Grinning, Oleander filled all three of them. "Cheers." She said, holding up her glass. "To..." Pausing, she looked to her companions. "Any ideas?"

"Oh, I have plenty, my dear." Aziraphale replied. "Just not one that feels right."

"Yeah, same." Oleander muttered. "I would've gone with 'to you two', but..." She shrugged.

"Well, I've got one." Crowley raised his glass. Looking first at his sister, then at his husband. "To the world."

Aziraphale smiled. He couldn't have picked a better one if he'd tried. "To the world."

Oleander beamed. "To the world."

Their glasses clinked.

***

That night, as they lay in bed together, their legs all in a pile and their arms wrapped around each other, the last immortals felt something. It had been hovering in the background all day, pushed even farther away by the celebration of Crowley and Aziraphale's union. But now, with all distractions gone and nothing left to do, it lay there with them. Warming them. Connecting them. The realization that this was the beginning of the rest of their lives, with all the joy, pain, confusion, and uncertainty that came with it.

None of them would have had it any other way. Because they would face it all together, here, on their own side.


End file.
